#the son of the king fanfic

[starry-bi-sky]

Unpleasant Revelations - DPxDC Ficlet Idea for the Stillborn Au

"Have you met my youngest, Damian, Mr. Masters?"

Its only from twenty years of long, hard experience and practice that Vlad doesn't increase the room temperature from 'borderline uncomfortably cool' to 'unbearably hot' the moment Bruce Wayne pulls his youngest and "only" biological son out in front of him.

He puts only in quotations because twelve year old Damian Wayne looks scarily, uncannily like one Daniel Brown. Jack and Maddie's foster son, second victim of their foolishness, and only other halfa in existence. Second only to him.

It's nauseating how similar they look. From the scowl and terrible glare on the young boy's face, to his brown skin -- which was only a few shades lighter than Daniel's, the shape of his nose, and even the strange winged edge of his eyebrow. Something that Vlad has long since come to find endearing on the child he considered a son of his own. The only difference was that Damian had dark, sharp green eyes.

Daniel's eyes were blue. The same glacier shade as his father's, who stood behind Damian with a proud, oafish smile on his visage.

It was infuriating how similar they look. Vlad might not have rapidly swung the room temperature from one extreme to the other, but he can't stop himself from letting the fury burning within his core from slipping out and raising the temperature up a few degrees.

Because it really only meant one thing.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were related.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were brothers.

Standing in front of him, it was clear as day. He can already picture a phantom image of Daniel standing beside Damian, the same scowl written on his face, the same glare carved into his eyes. The only difference being the dark, exhausted circles beneath them that seemed to be permanently painted onto his skin. The only thing missing being the permanent loneliness and vigilance permeating his being like a scar.

This, if revealed, would be enough to ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation. Or, at the very least, darken it quite a bit. The great philanthropist Bruce Wayne with another secret blood child? One related to his youngest? One that had been put into foster care? Seemingly thrown away?

It would be a firestorm.

One that Vlad is not keen on starting.

It would ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation, yes. But it would hurt Daniel in the process -- the harassment he would face alone might just be enough to break that fragile child completely. That was just not something he could allow. Or, even worse, bring him into his biological father's care and custody -- something Vlad was even less willing to allow.

It's not out of kindness to Wayne that Vlad will keep mum about this.

His grip on his champagne flute tightens, just a bit. He's still aware enough of the world around him to not let it shatter in his hands. His plastered, pleasant smile tightens around the corners, and he forces his focus to slide from Damian to Wayne.

"The resemblance is uncanny, Mister Wayne." He says, slanting his smile to the side slyly. Although he's not talking about the resemblance between Wayne and his son. Rage simmers beneath his skin, burning coal and embers in the core of his chest, nestled between his lungs, as he meets the man's eyes.

Wayne swaggles his head proudly, his ditzy smile widening as he squeezes his son's shoulder affectionately. Bastard, Vlad wants to spit.

He breathes in through his nose, and exhales out through his mouth. The champagne in his hand cools, and stops its unusual bubbling.

The Damian boy scoffs under his breath, his mouth still coiled upward into a scowl. With the revelation of his blood relation to Daniel evident, Vlad's not sure if he should find it endearing or not.

He is not Daniel, so he decides that it's just simply irritating. He decides to ignore it.

"And you said he was your only biological son?" He asks, voice lilting and head tilting. He knows its a suspicious question at worst, insulting at best. But considering Wayne's past proclivities, he can hardly call it an unexpected question.

Damian puffs in great offense, face twisting angrily. It reminds him of Daniel when Vlad insisted that he was wrong about something or other, and for a moment his heart swells, fond.

But this is not his child, and so the feeling quickly crashes and burns, simmering back into rage. This was not Daniel -- this was his replacement. A replacement that Wayne was free to keep.

Wayne chuckles, idiotically, as if he'd said some funny joke. Vlad's other hand, the one gripping his cane -- something he's required ever since he was dispatched from the hospital all those lonely years ago -- tightens instead. He grinds his teeth -- him and Jack Fenton would get along like a house on fire, he hates it.

"I can understand why you'd ask that, Mister Masters," Wayne says, squeezing Damian's shoulder again, "but yes, Damian is my only biological son. Although that doesn't mean I don't love my other children any less."

Bastard.

For all his posturing and flouncing about caring for his city and his children, Vlad never would have thought the Prince of Gotham capable of abandoning one of them.

But, well.

They all have their dark secrets.

And what one man throws away, another man picks up. If Bruce Wayne didn't want the treasure child that was Daniel Brown, then Vlad Masters was more than happy to take him instead.

"I see."

[bagginshieldfamily]

Okay but the fix it writers when it’s been three, no, nearly four year after Bilbo left the lonely mountain. He saw them die. Thorin and his nephews. He knew he couldn’t stay to watch them mourn. He felt to responsible for having been knocked out earlier and now being the sole reason the line of Durin has fallen. But then those four years later, Bilbo is doing his merry finest to act like nothing had happened to crush his soul. To act like a regular hobbit around the others. He gardens and bakes and hell, he’s has a little fauntling toddling about the hobbit hole. He had a family. A boy. And then that early morning knock at breakfast. A very much alive and desperate looking King Under the Moutian and his trusted company. All alive and accounted for at his round home door. There was a lot of misunderstanding later and explaining that was gonna need done from both sides, especially with a certain tiny dwobbit playing on the ground.

[st-pop]

Doodles of some of my favourite scenes from my all time favourite fanfic ‘ A Revealed Past ‘ by @lyricalpiece

No joke i have re-read this more than 5 times, this fic lives in my brain and stays there like a goddamn hobbit i love this so much PLEASE read this its so good. Its funny, has angst, and silly people. 🫶‼️

[starsfic]

lmk prompt: mk and red son finally building up the courage to confess to each other but they ended up screaming their feelings out due to nervousness lmao (bonus: the gang + DBK and PIF are watching in the bg)

"I LOVE YOU!"

"I LOVE YOU TOO!"

"Wow."

"That's...quite the pair of lungs they have," Sandy said, offering a cup of tea to the demon queen sitting next to his oldest friend. Princess Iron Fan accepted, a gleam in her eyes as she took a delicate sip. "Should we be concerned?"

"No," she said, looking at them all. Her husband looked away, his face visibly darkening. Not with anger but with embarrassment. "It's a good sign. It shows that they were brave enough to confess despite their nerves. My husband was like that."

He had yelled at her and, for a good minute, she had been offended. But then she had looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the trembling in his form, the sweat that matted his fur. It was the same shaking and sweating her dear son had. Like his father, he had collapsed to his knees. Unlike his father, he was holding the Noodle Boy who was smiling into his hair, lucky enough and proud enough to not lower himself to begging.

She liked her husband begging, but not for her heart.

"Get me a copy of that picture," she said to the Long girl, who had her phone up and was snapping pictures.

"On it, boss!"

[autism-autobot]

FloaPS Memes!

Made post part 17

Masterpost

General FloaPS Memes:

Based on FloaPS Facts:

Where did Macaque go?

Based on certain FloaPS chapters:

How helpful are they really?

The answer is VERY

Wukong:

@swkbiggestdefender @starrclown @istopaskingmemate @ainnur

@weaverpop : a wip I think you'd like

[witchthewriter]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐔𝐡𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝'𝐬 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐬/𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

Warnings: violence

a/n: nsfw included (ha duh)

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

ESFP

Gryffindor

Neutral Good

Aries Sun, Sagittarius Moon, Capricorn Rising

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・Trusting other's wasn't easy for Uhtred. Well, until a person saves his life.

・It didn't seem like a big deal at the time. The decision was easy to make. With four men against thirty, it was more than an unequal fight.

・Standing out of sight, you grabbed one of your silver-tipped arrows and aimed.

・The leader of the large group of men faltered in his step. His gaze trying to locate the source of the arrow, which had landed exactly where he was about to step.

"Hiding is cowardice," the man bellowed. His thick furs unable to hide his fear.

With a raised eyebrow you huffed, not taking the obvious bait.

・You saw one of the men raise a dagger and as he was about to throw it, you released another arrow. Straight into his shoulder.

・Then the fighting started. It only took ten minutes for it to stop.

・You didn't just have great aim with an arrow, you were deadly with daggers as well.

・Now years later, you're found by Uhtred's side. Where he goes, you go. There isn't an issue with him bringing you along on his travels - he knows you can look after yourself.

・A favourite of Finan's, Osferth's & Sihtric's. As you were the only person Uhtred would listen to. Truly listen to.

・And allow himself to be told off by.

・So the three men think you are some sort of powerful being.

・Osferth actually had a bit of a crush on you for a while. Whenever you spoke to him, he would blush.

・Finan and Sihtric teased him relentlessly, and Uhtred overheard them one evening. But he was not jealous. Not in the slightest.

・Osferth nearly died on the spot when he heard Uhtred speaking though.

"I think anyone could fall in love with them. They make it so easy."

・However, it did take a while for Uhtred to tell you about his past. A long, long while. It came in little packages. As if he couldn't say too much at once.

・Showing emotion wasn't one of his great strengths

・But gods forbid if anything happened to you

・There was a time that you had been kidnapped and he nearly tore himself apart trying to find you. All logical thinking had disappeared.

・He knew he couldn't live without you, but knowing that it was a possibility, hit him like a physical blow.

・You are his heart, the person that he always wants to be around. There is no him, without you.

・For years he did not know what his destiny was.

・But now he knows.

・It's you.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Overly arrogant, flirty (Uhtred) x Absolutely unfazed (You)

"Give me attention." (Uhtred) x "If the world knew you were like this, they'd be shocked." (You)

"Wtf did you do now?" (You) x "It was an accident!" (Uhtred)

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

You Save His Life & He Could Not Get You Out Of His Head

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Lívstræðrir by John Lunn, Eivør

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point.

・Uhtred is a giving and passionate lover. As soon as you get time to yourselves, his hands are holding you tight against him. Lips attached to yours in a firm and feverish kiss.

・Behind closed doors is where you see Uhtred's full abilities.

・It's not as if he cannot please you while travelling, it's that he cannot reach the limits that he can when he's able to be fully naked and without interruption.

・At home, with the warm glow of the fire in your joint chamber, he shows you how much he loves you.

・Your naked form underneath his, chest to chest, heart's beating in the same rhythm.

・If you've been apart for a long time, then Uhtred cannot keep his hands off of you, nor can he endure your clothing. Sex is rougher, slightly quicker, but that doesn't mean once is enough.

・No, once is never enough for Uhtred.

・There never goes a night without him at least making you cum. Thrice.

[falling-star-cygnus]

Shaking the fandom by the shoulders WHERE ARE THE CAESAR AND BILLY SIBLING FICS!? THEY ARE STATED TO BE SIBLINGS! BILLY GAVE CAESAR ONE OF HIS ARMS! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH POTENTIAL THERE IS WITH THESE TWO?!

((Sorry for the excitement. I was really looking forward for some caesar and Billy wholesomeness from the fandom, after chapter 4. And I found...well, that one angst fic of Billy losing his memories from you and that was before she released! Seriously, we need more big sibling lil sibling dynamic with Caesar and Billy!

LOUDERRRRR -> the billy kid & caesar king tag doesn't even exist on ao3 yet 😭

which is CRAZY, bc- they're so sweet?? like Caesar clearly cares so much about him [i have one more Caesar post that's only on here, and in my Hare Headcanons Incorrect Quotes fic, in case you didn't see it :D]

sooo anydoodle, here's Caesar and Lighter's reaction to Dismemberment! enjoyyy~ i hope

"BILLY KID."

....oooh, boy.

It had been a while since the android had heard that tone. A nice while. A good while.

He should run.

"GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE. RIGHT NOW."

He should definitely run.

As quietly, and as quickly, as Billy could possibly manage- he crept off the couch and towards the door. Caesar had swung by on one of her rare trips to Sixth Street, Lighter in tow, to say hi. And to catch up, of course, as the two had been immediately roped into conversation by the girls. With pictures.

He was going to find Burnice's stash and burn it one of these days...

The android crept another step.

Then another.

Annnnd one more.

Freedom was within his grasp..

"Going somewhere, brother?"

A familiar hand, equipped with a gaudy gauntlet he'd say, latches onto the back of his collar to haul him up to his feet like the android was a particularly feisty alley cat.

"Damnit, Lighter, when did you get so strong!?" Billy yelps, despaired that his exit has been cut off, "What did I do?"

"What didn't you do, Billy?" Caesar cuts in, arms crossed in that scolding Big Sister way that still terrifies him.

"Uh, huh-!? I don't know- Did I forget to take the trash out? Or send a letter? What did I do!?"

Nicole peeks out of the kitchen, vaguely apologetic as she watches the scene play out. 'Sorry' she mouths at him. And then flees.

Like a traitor.

Billy doesn't even notice that Caesar and Lighter are examining his limbs until his Big Sis is snapping in front of his face. With..

Ohhhh.

"You didn't think it was important to tell us you had been stripped for parts?" The leading lady of the Sons barks, pinching some of the hair behind his audio processors to tug.

"Obviously it didn't stick."

"Don't sass your big sister," Lighter tugs him into a loose chokehold to knuckle into his hair, "We had to find out from your boss!"

A traitor!

"I didn't want to worry you! I got better-"

Billy is suddenly struck with the images of Piper and Lucy, what they'd look like if they found out what happened to him. How it would effect Piper's sleep, which was so easily influenced by the sounds around her. Or Lucy's already low trust in strangers.

The android is wrenching himself out of Lighter's hold before he even realizes, clutching onto his arm and to Caesar's elbow.

"You can't tell the others," he pleads, careful to keep his grip loose enough not to break the fragile human bones, "Lucy- Piper, please Big Sis- don't tell them."

"Starlight..."

Caesar carefully removes herself from the marksmen's hold to cup his face plate and knock her forehead into his. Which can't feel good, considering the pointed appendages on his forehead.

But, of course, the leading lady doesn't even flinch.

"When I lost my arm, you gave me one of your spares without even thinking about it. It pisses me off that someone took that choice from you."

Her grip shifts from Billy's face to his neck, and she guides the android into a... sort of awkward hug. Billy was just this side of too tall to comfortably burrow into her neck standing up.

"You're allowed to be upset about it too, little bro."

"When are you gonna get it through your thick skull that we care about you," Lighter tacks on, shifting his grip to the android's shoulder, "You weren't just a weapon, or my predecessor. You're our brother, Kid."

He continues before Billy can even stumble out a response.

"So- please.."

"...tell us these things," Caesar finishes, "We'll understand."

bonus: Caesar, pulling back: Now. Billy: ...? Caesar: Is that motherfucker still alive? *the android sputters, but can't exactly flee or deflect in his current position* Anby, behind Caesar: o-o7 Lighter: ....ȏvō7

[green-watcher]

A son for a son. 🖤

[hirokosoul]

[howling-medic]

Impertinence

Summary: Five times Pippin call Aragorn Strider in places he shouldn't, and the one time he didn't. With an epilogue and bonus snippet because I couldn't leave it where it ended. This is entirely unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

A/N: Holy shit. This was kind of a beast to write. I also wrote it mostly while on shift, so I'm really hoping I caught all my mistakes, and it's mostly decent. I am not sure how happy with this I am, but I think it is as good as I am going to get it. If I keep agonizing over it, I'll never sleep today. So, up it goes. Also, I am too lazy to make this into multiple chapters right now. Maybe one day I will, but it is not this day. For now, there are headers at the start of each section

This whole thing came about because I mentioned to someone that I want Fourth Age content because I wanted to see Pippin being a little shit in court, and I was told emphatically that Pippin would clearly grow up and behave himself. I think that's insane. Pippin is a socially skilled class clown with a high level of intelligence. He also has zero regard for authority figures. So I wrote a whole fic about how much of a dork Pippin is and how Aragorn adores that dork - even if he a giant pain in his ass.

TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, angst, sadness, heartbreak, mentions of alcohol

WC: 7562 words (This was never intended to be this long, y'all.)

Making An Entrance

“Strider!” The shout cut through the den of the courtyard of the Citadel. King Elessar sighed fondly and turned to find Pippin jogging towards him in his road dirtied court attire. In the past two years Aragorn had learned one thing: every time the young hobbit came back to court, he would call the King by his old moniker in public at least once. Usually more. As with each time, everyone in the vicinity turned to search for the source of the disrespect to their monarch.

“Thrain Took,” Aragorn called in greeting. At the use of his title, Pippin’s ears went pink, and Aragorn laughed at the sight of the very moment the young hobbit realized his mistake. To the utter shock of any in the area who did know of Pippin or the story of the name Strider, including the Harad emissaries who had come to discuss a new trade agreement, Aragorn knelt to welcome his friend with a warm embrace. “How are you my dear friend? How was your journey?”

“Ach, I am as well as ever! The road was long, but certainly shorter than my first journey here.” Pippin was about to launch into a long winded tale of the trip and all those he and Merry saw along the way, as well as all the doings of The Shire. Aragorn could see it in the hobbit’s eyes. Just before he could open his mouth, Aragorn interjected, “And I cannot wait to hear all you wish to share. I am certain we have much to discuss politically and personally, but I do not wish to keep you from getting a bite and a bath, so go freshen yourself. Then come to my quarters for dinner.”

Pippin glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder and saw the assembled group of men waiting on his liege to return, and then he looked back to Aragorn. His lips pressed into a thin line. The group of Harad dignitaries looked utterly aghast at his apparent impudence. Aragorn shrugged nearly imperceptibly and rolled his eyes, at which Pippin’s face lit up anew. “As you wish, Strider.” Aragorn barked out a startled laugh and shook his head. 

“Fool of a Took,” he murmured and rose to return to the Harad behind him. “Gentlemen, where were we?”

“You accept such disrespect from a creature so small? Was that a child?” One of the men asked while his eyes followed the retreating form of Pippin.

“That,” Aragorn said in a voice still light with laughter while watching Pippin disappear inside the Citadel, “Was a hobbit of more renown and valor than you could imagine. His name is Peregrin Took. He is the Thrain of the Shire, and a Knight of the Citadel. He was also one of the nine of the Fellowship of the Ring. He, the others of that party, and the Thrain’s kin are the only people from whom I accept that name. So no, my lord, I suffer no disrespect, nor was that a child.” The laughter in Aragorn’s voice died, and he turned back to the group before him. “I would advise you to not disrespect hobbits in this court - particularly those who were a part of the Fellowship. They are much beloved by myself, my household, and this land.” The three assembled emissaries took a collective half step back. Looking at each of the three in turn, Aragorn found his humor and patience was spent. Silent judgment and covert murmurs about his patience with Pippin he could handle, but the incredulity in this man’s voice with no knowledge of what he spoke, of who he spoke, was not something Aragorn could not abide. “I believe we are done with negotiations for today.” He broke off for the briefest of moments and pushed aside the temptation to put these three men, the truly impudent ones in this situation, in their place in favor of remaining diplomatic. “Let us resume tomorrow for I desire to inquire after Thrain Took’s companion, Meriadoc, and hear the news of a region of my land from which I receive very little.” 

“My lord,” they said in unison. 

Aragorn took his leave. As he turned, he caught their shared look of disbelief. “Strider?” he heard one ask. “Hobbits?” another asked. “Strange land and a strange people,” the final man declared. Aragorn chuckled. Once again, he was going to have to have a word with Pippin. No matter how much more he loathed the Harads’ words, Pippin had to watch around whom he spoke in such a manner. Even if Aragorn wished it was not so.

However, later that evening as Aragorn entered the sitting room of the Royal Apartments, the earnest look of joy Aragorn saw in Pippin’s eyes when he exclaimed the name - the one given to him by an innkeeper that Aragorn once loathed - stayed his tongue. With a sigh of relief, the High King of the Reunited Kingdom lifted the winged crown from his head and placed it upon the black velvet cushion on a side table that was as near to the door as possible without blocking it. Then he did away with the heavy blue velvet cloak adorned with the crest of the House of Telcontar selected by his attendants specifically for his meeting with the Harad dignitaries. “Strider indeed, my friend,” Aragorn said with a fond chuckle. “You truly will never let that name remain in the past, will you?”

“Why ever would I?” Pippin asked. His brows furrowed in earnest confusion. “It is the name I first knew you by, and someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear.” 

Aragorn laughed. It started as a choked back sound of surprise and devolved into a truly uproarious, booming laugh. So few dared to speak to him in such a manner that it was refreshing to hear such cheek. “Verily, and I suppose one so close to the ground would be just the person to do so?”

“Precisely! I am glad you understand!” Pippin beamed up Aragorn with mirth and mischief dancing in his eyes that spelled nothing but trouble. The Ranger of the North could not find it within himself to fret over it. 

Of Hobbits and Their Food

“Strider! Do not be absurd!” Pippin cried with his hands thrown up in exasperation. Aragorn resisted the urge to let his head fall to the wooden table before him. The assembled council looked in utter disbelief at the impudent hobbit in their midst. The annual meeting discussing each region’s harvest dragged on well past lunch and was showing no signs of stopping - despite the originally listed eleven o'clock end time for the meeting. Several regions’ summers had been unusually dry, and The Shire’s harvest outperformed all others. As a solution, one of Aragorn’s advisors proposed requisitioning a small portion of its grains and preservable legumes to help offset the dearth from the other areas of Gondor. Pippin was displeased with the notion, to say the least, and turned that displeasure to Aragorn. The King sat with his fingers steepled on the table. It was logical, but many hobbits viewed ‘Big Folks’ with intense weariness. Declaring a portion of their harvest the property of the crown would only validate that weariness and breed resentment in a fledgling political relationship. The crown was meant to protect that vulnerable region, not pilfer from them. Yet, his other territories were in a precarious position with meager stores to last the winter.

Of all the times and days to use the old nickname, this was the least ideal. Years with poor harvests led to contentious, and frequently panicked, fall assemblies of regional Lords. This assembly included many from outlying communities who did not frequently make it to court. Protesting a proposal was one thing. An outburst that - given their ignorance to the background of the familiar title - would appear to these Lords as impudence was another. Impudence they would perceive as tolerated by their King, which they would likely take to mean their King lacked control of his troops and court. Aragorn could feel every eye in the room trained on him, awaiting a response. Awaiting his rebuke to the comment. 

“Nothing has been decided Thrain Took,” Aragorn responded coldly. The emphasis he placed on Pippin’s title drew smirks from several Lords. Pippin did not flinch. 

The ever genial hobbits looked back at his friend with narrowed eyes. An unmeasured emotional outburst may have drawn the name from Pippin, but he showed no signs of being cowed that easily. “My apologies, Lord,” Pippin said bitterly. Aragorn suppressed a sigh of defeat and smile simultaneously.  

“State your case for reserving your resources. It is only right we hear your rebuttal after hearing the argument for requisitioning some of your bounty.” Aragorn’s tone took a more neutral tone. Arguments could remain behind closed doors - in places where the defiant nature of his friend would not raise eyebrows. Now was the time to draw an already overlong meeting to a close without further incident, so Aragorn could rein in his frustration for the time being. 

Pippin spoke eloquently of the need to keep The Shire’s resources within and not dispersing them, his tone turning to a dispassionate recitation of facts and history. He outlined the way they often support outlying communities like Bree and the general distrust nearly all the ‘shire folk felt’ of any situation where resources were taken in such a manner following Saruman’s abuse and subjugation. It was a persuasive case that Pippin would not have possessed the maturity to articulate five years ago when Aragorn met him in the Prancing Pony or four years ago when the hobbit first rode back to his home. The spirit and fierce protectiveness of his kin was the same, but the ability to debate over argue was a new development that Aragorn felt privileged to have witnessed. The inability to relinquish the old moniker of Strider in public seemed an enduring habit, however. 

Lunch was sent for as soon as the King left the meeting hall. Pippin sat before him with defiance radiating off him in waves. The look in his eyes was so similar to that which Aragorn saw in Rivendell when Elrond attempted to send Merry and Pippin back to the Shire instead of with the Fellowship that it nearly made him laugh at the old memory. Almost. “Peregrin Took,” Aragorn started, “We have had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and I have told you before that I am not likely to ever truly change. I may be older, and I may have fancy titles, but I am still no more than a hobbit from the Shire.”

“Is that so? Are you not a knight of the citadel and a member of this court? The designated ambassador from your land and representative of your people?” Aragorn asked, voice stern and lacking any of the humor with which he typically spoke to his friend. Even in their most heated political debates and spirited debate over old history, neither were prone to harsh tones. 

“Aye, I may be, but I am still simple folk. Unschooled in court and prone to gaffs.” Pippin’s protest held no water, and he knew it. Five years of serving in the court as Thrain of the Shire left him well schooled in court affairs - even if he traded on his humble, rural appearance and accent frequently in court dealings.  

“You know it causes a stir throughout the whole of the court each time you do that?” Aragorn asked sharply. “It reflects on how I manage my advisors and troops. I know things change slowly in The Shire, if they change at all, but are you so incapable of change yourself? Can you do as your King and liege lord commands in this, if you won’t do it for your friend?”

Pippin visibly deflated as Aragorn spoke. His shoulders drooped and his eyes fell to the cluttered desk before him. “Aye, Strider. That I can do. So long as I can still call you as I ever think of you out of earshot of those who fuss about such odd things.” Aragorn softened then. As I ever think of you. The simple statement drew a lopsided smile to his face that was reminiscent of the first night he met Pippin in Bree, the one that played across his face each time the four hobbits impressed him with their boldness in the face of fear and peril and each time they showed their heart and wisdom along their long journey. “Do you still see old Strider in me? You did once promise to ground me in that version of myself, did you not?”

“That I did, and that I do. You may wear fancy clothes and bathe regularly now, so your old rascally look is gone, but that does not mean you are not the rascal I first met. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

“I dare say it will be many times yet in the years we spend together. I find less and less of the Ranger in myself each day I spend in these stone halls.” “Do you not sneak out anymore? Slip past your guards and flee to the woods?” Pippin asked.

“Not in many months. I have been tied to this desk long into the night, and when I am not I am with the little ones. It also seems that many people who have no right to an opinion on the matter feel rather strongly that I ought not to ever be anywhere without a guard.”

“Would it please my lord to escape this evening then?”

“Did we not just say that we need not use titles away from listening ears?” Aragorn inquired through a laugh.

“That we did, but I am still an ass and a Fool of a Took after these many years. I shall do as I please behind closed doors and do as you please beyond them,” Pippin answered simply and grinned.

“I suppose I can abide that,” Aragorn replied and fell silent for a moment. “I do believe an escape into the woods sounds like a wonderful idea - plus none can protest that I will be unprotected with a Knight of Gondor at my side.” 

“Excellent! Then let's settle the matter of the Shire’s crops, so we have no work to haggle over while we are beneath the stars…Strider.”

Feasts are for celebrating

It was the Midsummer’s Feast, and all the remaining members of The Fellowship, their spouses, Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, and Faramir sat at the head table. A few notable dignitaries from Aglarond and Legolas’s kin in Ithilien had also been designated seats of honor with the tightly knit group of nobility. Eight years into the Fourth Age left the lands prosperous and healing. Areas that had long since not seen inhabitants were being rebuilt. Maps were being redrawn with each passing year because they lacked new settlements. That was a struggle all were thrilled to have. 

Eight years of retelling stories, however, meant they only still possessed roots in the truth. With each new recitation details were exaggerated anew. Drama was added. Some events were simply fabricated from nowhere. Some were far guiltier of these transgressions than others. Pippin was fairly notorious throughout the Reunited Realm for embellishments - especially when the wine and ale flowed freely as it did at feasts. As it was at this Midsummer’s Feast. “Strider! Strider!” Pippin called from halfway down the table. The guests of honor from abroad, who were seated next to Pipped, gaped at the hobbit who had already shared many fascinating tales that evening. “I was rather indisposed with dancing and singing, and you were the only one with Frood at the time in the Prancing Pony. Could you tell us the story of what you saw - or didn’t see, for that matter - in the tavern when he disappeared? These lovely gentlemen from Aglarond have not heard that story yet, seeing as we had not yet met Gimli!” 

Each person well acquainted with Pippin, and his propensity to forget proper etiquette, looked around the table and then to Aragorn. Every feast it happened eventually, no matter how many times Pippin was lectured, and each time his friends reacted the same. Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Pippin acted as he did simply to get a rise out of those around him. Someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear echoed in Aragorn’s mind as he watched the familiar sight of the friends he called family react anew to Pippin’s antics. Faramir grumbled something incoherent into his glass of wine, for which Éowyn promptly kicked his shin. Éomer snorted out a rather undignified choked laugh. Lothíriel glared at him. Merry groaned into his hands to muffle the sound. Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line to hide a smile. Sam shook his head in dismay. Rosie giggled into her napkin. Gimli had no such compunctions and chuckled rather loudly. Diamond sighed and looked apologetically at Arwen. Arwen visibly fought back laughter. Aragorn, donning the Winged Crown and Star of Elendil, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and proceeded to give a full recount of the events in the Prancing Pony the first night he met the hobbits. That retelling quickly led to several more tales shared - and debated. Tales of travels and battles, and all the embarrassing mishaps and pranks along the way. The formality of the night quickly devolved, and strict court manners gradually faded from each of the friends. 

After a few more glasses of wine and ale, Pippin was far from the only one at the table who had their fun at the expense of the King sitting at the head of the table. Merry recounted the time Aragorn “mercilessly taunted me while I was ailing in the Houses of Healing! I had just stabbed the Witch King himself, if you’ll believe it, and here was my friend telling me I had lost my gear that was sitting by the bed the whole time!” Gimli and Legolas shared many tales of their time as ‘The Three Hunters’. The one that earned Gimli the most laughter was the abject horror of being awoken well before dawn only for Aragorn to lay himself flat on the ground for “nearly a whole age of men” to declare many horses were nearby…only for Legolas to be able to see them on the horizon and correctly count them. Éomer was all too happy to chime in that Legolas had been only three riders off on his count, before adding his own note on how he nearly killed all three of them on sight. He then apologized to Merry and Pippin, for easily the hundredth time, for almost inadvertently killing them while killing the band of orcs who had captured them. 

By the end of the night, King Elessar doffed his ceremonial headwear and pulled out his pipe. Once he lit it, he tossed a bag of pipeweed to Pippin with a grin and a nod. The court gaped at the King who had turned into a Ranger before their eyes, though many who had seen this mood take their Lord before just chuckled. Aragorn looked around and grinned. They could gape and murmur, for this night was a celebration of all that had been hard won, and the uncouth and unendingly frustrating hobbit gesturing wildly while telling all there was to know of the Battle of Isengard and the Final March of the Ents won much of their bounty back for them. Tonight needed no lecture. 

Joyous News

Nearly silent feet padded down the hallway outside Aragorn’s office. Had Aragorn not spent several decades around hobbits, and a decade listening for that sound in his own palace, he never would have heard it. Pippin had been in Minas Tirith for only two days, and mischief was already afoot apparently. “Stri-” Pippin started and skidded to a halt, and his jaw snapped shut. “My Lord,” he began again and then addressed the Captain- General standing before Aragorn’s desk. “My sincerest apologies to you both,” he mumbled. Glee still danced in the hobbit’s eyes despite the faint hue of pink on his cheeks. “I will come back later. I did not mean to interrupt.” 

“Peregrin,” the officer said and gestured him into the office, “join us. There is clearly news to be shared. Do not let me keep you from it.”

“Sire, please. I mean no offense, but this is news I need to tell Str- King Elessar alone.” Pippin caught himself midway through the old nickname. When he did, he looked up at Aragorn rather abashedly - the pink dusting to his cheeks darkening. Rarely did Pippin truly feel shame for breaking proper court etiquette, but breaking rank in front of his superior military officers was one of few things for which he felt ashamed, however. His place within the army was more ceremonial than anything else at this point, but he drilled each time he came to court and practiced with any those he could at home. It was a matter of pride that he maintained his skills. The practice of going through his drills kept the memory of Boromir alive, and Pippin meant to honor his promise to Denethor to serve Gondor until his dying breath in repayment of his debt for Boromir’s death.

Aragorn sighed and rose from his seat. He was not escaping the back and forth of deference that was brewing between these two. Pippin had already derailed the meeting and taken the focus off the report of Southrond raiding parties harrying several outlying communities. “Captain-General, if you would please excuse us for the briefest of moments. Clearly something urgent of a personal nature has come up, but I will return shortly.” Aragorn’s voice was tight, but he motioned towards the side door that led to a private side room off the office. Pippin shuffled in behind Aragorn. The embarrassment at his multiple slips of the tongue were gone from Pippin’s face when Aragorn turned to face him. All that remained was a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “What on all of Arda is going on? And did no page or guard inform you I was in a meeting?” Aragorn asked.

“Well, as for pages and guards…no, but I did not really give them a chance to stop me either, for all my excitement.” “Then out with it, man!” Aragorn laughed, shaking his head with disbelief and amusement alike. His aggravation was quickly waning in the face of Pippin’s delight.

“I’m going to be a father! Diamond is pregnant!” Pippin exclaimed. 

The Captain-General standing on the other side of the thin wall with his urgent report no longer held even a fraction of his importance as he had moments before. Aragorn dropped to his knees to embrace Pippin. Aragorn’s lingering annoyance at the interruption and Pippin’s continued struggle to keep the name Strider behind closed doors was forgotten. “Well, that is a worthy reason to interrupt a meeting - and a reason to celebrate!”

“I would say so! Though, had I known you were otherwise engaged, I would have at least waited in the hall. It’s not as though the bairn is not going anywhere just yet.”

“No, indeed, but I will gladly be interrupted for joyous news, my good hobbit.” Aragorn looked to the door and then back to Pippin. “I have to hear this last report, but go find Arwen and Diamond. I think we are all done working for the day. It is time to celebrate a new generation of Tooks.” As Pippin turned to leave, Aragorn added, “But Pippin, you have to let the staff stop you next time even if I welcome interruptions for good news - and please, after ten years, stop calling me Strider while we are working.”

“As you wish, Strider!” Pippin called halfway out the door. Aragorn groaned and shook his head, gesturing for the Captain-General to take the seat across from the desk.

“Do not ask, for I have neither the time nor the energy to explain,” Aragorn said in answer to the inquisitive look the man gave him.

Infrastructure of the Fourth Age

“It will never work, Strider,” Pippin interrupted in the middle of Aragorn’s explanation of his plan to dig new wells in the lower levels and outlying communities surrounding Minas Tirith as the city’s population outgrew the confines of its walls - and the limits of their water supply. Most of the assembled advisors, craftsmen, and lords present were well used to the behavior of the Thrain of the Shire. However, Several were not, and they looked wide eyed between the King and his Knight. Aragorn looked at the ceiling as though he expected to find an answer to the riddle of Pippin’s behavior there. There was none. Strictly speaking, he was not even needed or invited to this meeting, but he had a habit of poking his head into court sessions that were not pertinent to his duties or position. 

“Thrain Took. Please. I welcome your thoughts and opinions, but I cannot abide your interruptions or use of familiar names during council meetings. We have discussed this at length,” Aragorn said sternly once he looked back at the hobbit and after a long sigh.

“My apologies, your majesty, but I do not beg your pardon. You cannot hold this old hobbit at fault. I simply forget myself in my advanced age,” Pippin said. The room stilled. Aragorn laughed despite himself. At one point, he hoped and expected Pippin to mellow as he aged, but the opposite proved to be the case. Each year the hobbit became bolder, but he was savvier about it. There were few times, however, where he sounded much like his younger self. 

“I have heard that excuse before from an old hobbit in Rivendell who blamed senility for gaffs. I did not believe him then, just as I do not believe you now,” Aragorn said and smirked.

“You may choose to believe me or not as you wish,” Pippin said with a shrug, “but that does not change the fact that I think this plan is entirely foolish and ill conceived - and I agreed to march on the Black Gates with you. And that was a plan with near certainty of death and small chance of success. This, I would wager, has no chance of success.” A few of the younger people in attendance gasped. Most of the older council members laughed under their breath. Pippin matched Aragorn’s smirk and did not flinch. This was the level of pointed discussion they reserved for Aragorn’s study and had over a bottle of wine. However, Aragorn had not shared this plan with Pippin - as it truly was not a plan that impacted the hobbit in any fashion, nor did it seem a plan that would interest him. Apparently, he should have.

“And do you have another suggestion then, Thrain Took?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Pippin declared in a smug tone with a grin to match. “We just had to manage the exact same issue in Hobbiton - granted we lack the many levels and such owing to most hobbits not even handling homes with second stories well, let alone a city of multiple levels with buildings of even more levels - but good ol’ Merry and some of Legolas’ elves came up with a brilliant way to reroute some of the water from the Brandywine to make new distributaries! I think we may need to do the same here.”

“And why would wells not work as they always have?” Aragorn challenged, but his words held no heat, nor did he ask unkindly. There was an elegance to the idea Pippin was proposing, and Aragorn was keen to hear it. Now came to the political jockeying needed to sell opposition to one of Pippin’s less tactical rebukes of a plan proposed by Aragorn. “How in the world do you think you are going to find new well sites that nobody in the history of this city has found? Are you going to go digging up roads all over the first and second level? No. You most certainly aren’t. Instead you can reroute some small distributaries off the Anduin to create a water source in the outlying communities and then work with Gimli and the other dwarves of Aglarond on a system for running that source up to the first and second levels. They have to have a system for it in their caves.”

“Master Thrain,” Aragorn said flatly.

“Yes, my lord?” Pippin asked.

“I am commissioning you back into my service for this project. You are now the lead on it. But, Peregrin, do not interrupt me like that or address me so in any of the meetings on it again.”

“I shall do as my lord bids me,” Pippin said. The smug grin on his face had never faded for a moment. The old members of the council rolled their eyes, and the young ones still gaped at him. Aragorn sighed and shook his head once again. 

Sounds You Miss

Years dragged on and Aragorn found the gift of his long life became a curse once again. His friends were aging before his eyes while he stayed ever young. Sam sailed after Rosie passed away. Éomer died in the autumn two years before. The men of Aragorn’s guard when he first took the throne were dead or fading before his eyes. Their sons served him now. This was not the first generation of men that had passed before his eyes, but this was the first he had spent the majority of in one place, the first he tied himself to closely. 

Aragorn sat upon his throne and attempted to focus on the day’s open court. Truly, he put a valiant effort towards it, but his mind refused to bend to his will. The citizens of Gondor brought their woes, struggles, and strife to him once a week - more often if he could manage it- and he always listened intently. He did his best to resolve each issue that came before him, and he was known for his attentiveness and benevolence amongst his subjects. Today he simply could not manage to keep his focus trained upon the proceedings. It was instead in the building nearly directly below him where Merry and Pippin had resided for some time now. Neither were well. The ravages of age spared none of the mortal beings of Middle Earth, no matter how desperately those who would outlive them wished it to be otherwise. Their aged bodies looked like shadows of the young hobbits Aragorn had once known. Merry struggled to use his right arm no matter how Aragorn strove to heal it. Pippin fared far worse. His lungs failed him frequently, and his knees plagued him with pain. Despite it all, they still insisted on coming up to the citadel for nearly every meal, and their spirits were high as ever. Age and weariness could not diminish those, nor could it quiet their laughter. Withered as he was, Pippin continued to be as unruly as in his youth. Except for the past few days. Of late, He seemed distant - like he had one foot beyond this land. 

Heavy boots thundered down the hallway towards the throne room. Aragorn tensed. All eyes turned to face the source of the sound. Eldarion came to a skidding halt before his father. He faced King Elessar red in the face and panting. “Pippin?” Aragorn asked. His voice was already thick and choked with tears. His son need not answer. Lest peril had befallen his siblings or mother, there was nothing that would have made him run so. All the same, Eldarion nodded. Aragorn rose slowly from his seat and composed himself enough that he hoped his voice would not shake. “Court is adjourned for the day.” His voice held an air of finality which none dared defy. “Please see the Master of Ceremony on your way out, and he will take note of that which you came to address. When I am able, I will review all issues submitted. Now I must attend to a matter that I fear cannot wait.” With instructions given, Aragorn stepped down from the throne and moved as hastily as he could without looking entirely undignified through the crowd of subjects, but as soon as he was out of sight of the main hallways and corridors, he was running.

The air in Bair Nestad felt stifling. There was a tension that could have been sliced through by a sword. Every healer stepped aside wordlessly and bowed their heads as Aragorn made his way to Pippin’s room. Typically, he was greeted with warm smiles entering this space, and not infrequently he offered aid or advice. Not this day, however. The scene that greeted Aragorn on the other side of the door brought him up short. Merry - old and stiff as he was - was seated cross legged on the too big bed. Tears ran silently down his cheeks while he dabbed at Pippin’s forehead with a wet towel. The younger hobbit’s face was pale. Far paler than he had been even the night before. A cough had plagued him for weeks, but he had continued to claim all was well. Now his lips had gone blue. Even the sound of heavy footsteps did not rouse Pippin. “The fever took him in the night. Didn’t tell a soul,” Merry said without prompting, “he can’t catch his breath anymore.”

At the sound of Merry’s voice, Pippin’s eyes opened slowly. His gaze was unfocused and distant until he saw Aragorn. At the sight, his face broke into a weak smile, but before he could say a word a coughing fit that wracked his entire frail body overtook him. “Let me go fetch some herbs. We can treat the fever and soothe the cough,” Aragorn began, but Pippin shook his head with what little strength he could muster.

“There is nothing left to try,” he croaked. His voice was so faint that it could barely be heard even in the silent room. “Just come sit with me, my old friend.” Aragorn sighed. Every part of him yearned to fight the invisible foe that plagued Pippin. This was no battle that could be won with Andúril, nor yet by all the trainings of Elrond in the days of his youth. This battle was the same one that destroyed the Númenoreans and nearly decimated Gondor itself. It was one with no victory. The battle against time and age. 

“As you wish,” Aragorn answered reluctantly after several seconds.

Aragorn sat beside Pippin for hours. There was idle chatter here and there. Sometimes with Merry while Pippin slept. Every once and a while, he would wake, and the three friends would recount the old days, rather Merry and Aragorn retold Pippin’s favorite stories to him with Pippin correcting them when they forgot the fabrications he added over the years. Eldarion and all those who had come to love the Thrain over the years came by to say their goodbyes. The King never left his Knight’s side. Eventually Pippin let him send for Athelas to ease the pain that came with each coughing fit. It comforted all who sat vigil, and the tension lessened in Pippin’s face while it brewed beside him. The room smelled of the woods of The Shire, and when Pippin first smelled it, he smiled and sighed. “Home…would that I could see it once more.”

“Maybe you can, Pip! We might be able to take one last grand adventure yet!” Merry tried to make the words sound hopeful, but they came out hollow.

“I think the only adventure that awaits me, old Merry, is whatever comes next. If you do make it back to The Shire, tell Faramir I love him for me. I’ll tell Sam and Frodo ‘hello’ for you, when I get wherever I am going - if they ever went there, that is.” Pippin’s words were weak. 

With each time he woke, his gaze became more distant. Both Merry and Aragorn clung tightly to his hands as though they could keep their friend with them for even a few extra moments if they just held on tight enough.

“Merry lad,” Pippin murmured at length. 

“Yeah, Pip?”

“I don’t know if I ever thanked Treebeard for making me the tallest hobbit on record. Could you do that for me, please?” Both Merry and Aragorn laughed through the tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I think I can manage that, but I think he knows you are grateful to him for it. Don’t worry about that just now.”

“I wish I could see him again. Him and Quickbeam. They are such odd fellows. And Bombadill. We never would have made it home without them.”

“We will make sure they all know they were on your mind,” Aragorn said gently and had to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

“We never could have made it home without you either, and to think we almost didn’t trust you to go with us at all.”

“Well, don’t go counting me in that tally, Pip. I wasn’t there to not trust him, remember?” Pippin laughed. The sound came out more as a wheeze that caused him to start coughing once more. His lips were even more blue than when Aragorn first reached the Houses of Healing, and Pippin’s fingers were cold in his hand. “But I won’t fight your revisions - just this one time,” Merry added as an afterthought.

“Our King and protector from the day we met you,” Pippin said. A smile graced his features, and for just one last moment Aragorn could see the young hobbit that asked him about second breakfast, and then Pippin’s eyes fell closed for the final time. The name Strider seemed to hang in the air, but Aragorn never heard it again. 

Epilogue:

Pippin laid in state for a week. Tradition stated he be laid to rest in his uniform, but Merry insisted he wear his favorite coat and scarf, and so it was. At Aragorn’s insistence, Pippin’s livery lay folded at his feet to carry his honor with him wherever this last journey took him. Aragorn would not dream of laying Pippin to rest in his uniform either. He was a hobbit of The Shire foremost and a soldier second, but he fought valiantly. He needed that honor to stay with him. His sword, in true warrior’s fashion, was placed upon his breast. It was an odd picture: the bright colors of a hobbit’s traditional dress paired with the barrow blade. It felt fitting for the hobbit who caused trouble everywhere he went. Aragorn could think of nothing that would bring Pippin more joy than to know he caused a ruckus in court even in his death.

Mourners lined up all the way down to the fifth level to bid farewell to Ernîl Pheriannath. Each day the queue would begin at sunrise, and each day they came to lay flowers at the base of the bed upon which he rested and say their final goodbyes. A mere few hours before Pippin’s funeral, Aragorn stood before him. Aragorn wore no royal finery - hadn’t since he returned to his chambers from Bair Nestad - instead he wore the same clothes he wore the very first night he met the hobbits in Bree. The coat had more patches and the shirt was more threadbare than that night, but it mattered not. They were more treasured to Aragorn than any ceremonial tunic and cloak. No other hand mended them, not even Arwen. Now more than ever before they felt sacred. A last anchor to the Ranger of the North to which Pippin swore to serve as anchor. 

Each time Aragorn thought he could cry no more tears, more welled in his eyes. Now he wept openly. The sobs rang off the stone walls. It was not the first time in the past week he found himself in this position. The first night Merry found him there, and they cried together. When there were no tears left in either of them, they took a bottle of elven wine to the outer wall and drank and shared stories until the sun rose.

This night nobody came, and Aragorn was glad for it. Anger held his heart as much as grief. Blessed with long life, they said. It was no blessing to watch nearly all he held dear fade before his eyes. It was a curse greater than any he could fathom. There were only so many friends one man could lay to rest and watch sail away from him. Each time Aragorn stood before a crowd and spoke of the courageous deeds of those he fought beside and journeyed with it felt like his world shrunk that much more. Pippin left the world far smaller than his small stature accounted for and quieter than Aragorn could have ever predicted. At each turn he expected to hear “Strider!” called from down the hall followed by the sound of small bare feet slapping the stone. 

With a shaky step, Aragorn stepped up to Pippin. For just a moment, Aragorn saw the hobbit as he was during the War of the Ring: a young hobbit asleep in a bed roll who needed to be roused for another day on the march. A simpler time - albeit infinitely more perilous. A time before Aragorn wore the weight of the winged crown. “Strider I shall ever remain, my dear hobbit, ere I draw my last breath. I shall not let the wings of my crown fly me away from my roots.”

Bonus:

Aragorn never experienced the Sea Longing of the elves, but he knew when it was time to lay himself down for his final rest. His body did not move as it once did, and he was weary. This world no longer held him like it once did. When the time came, he said his goodbyes and felt no regrets. Arwen asked one last time for him to say, but Middle Earth was no longer his home. Aragorn had given every piece of himself to it. To saving it. Rebuilding it. Nurturing it. Growing it. His time had come to an end. When Aragorn shut his eyes for the last time, rest took him quickly, and at last he was at peace. 

He tried to roll over and shield himself from the light to sleep a few more minutes, but then his mind caught up to what he had just done. Aragorn’s eyes snapped open, and he was forced to blink against the brightness until his eyes adjusted to light around him. It seemed to have no clear source. He was laying in an unfamiliar bed. The room was nondescript and unadorned with no windows. Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, assessing the situation. An open door faced him with an even brighter hallway beyond it. With no other clear option, he slid on the boots beside him. The feel of the old leather brought a smile to his face. Then he grabbed the familiar green leather jacket laying on the end of the bed, and walked out into the hallway. 

One end of the hall was a dead end and the other was the source of all the light. It was a blindingly bright glow that obscured any terminus. Aragorn faced it and concluded that was the only way he was supposed to go. With a sigh, he set out to whatever lay beyond. As he neared the light, it resolved into a large, open corridor with many hallways branching off of it. Aragorn looked from one direction to the other and froze. His eyes flitted from side to side. Anxiety seized him. Just as he was about to choose a direction at random, the sound of small, bare, running feet came echoing down the hall on his left. Aragorn froze. He refused to feel hopeful. Refused to look. “Strider!” a familiar voice cried from his left. Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat. Fifty three years he had waited to hear that voice say the name that had hung in the air since after he died. “Strider!” he called again, and Aragorn turned to see Pippin barreling towards him at a pace the hobbit had not been able to run for many years. He looked just as he had that first night in Bree down to his jacket and scarf. 

“Pippin,” Aragorn sobbed and fell to his knees just in time to catch Pippin in his arms. “My dear, dear hobbit. How I have missed hearing you call that name.”

“Did you manage to stay firmly on the ground, or did those wings you wore fly you away? I hoped I reminded you who you are enough times before I left you, but I have fretted a few times that I didn’t quite do enough.”

Aragorn shuffled back from Pippin enough to take a good look at him and shook his head in disbelief. “You did plenty enough to remind me who I am, but I hope I never have to go without hearing you call my name - whichever you want at any time and in any place - ever again.”

“Well, you are in luck, Strider. As it turns out, we hobbits go the same place men do, and everyone is waiting for you.”

A/N: So I made myself cry like 17 times writing the last parts of this thing. I apologize for the pain, but I hope you enjoyed!

///////////////////////////Tagging those who liked my original post//////////////////

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[figsnpassionfruits]

i've seen you reposted some size kink stories- where are you finding thoseeeee?? i have been looking for so long trying to find them- i just love how they make me feeeeeel

Ugh, trust me I know! I have a bunch of writers that follow and I just love their work. Usually, I just look through their Masterlist to try to find anything that mentions what I am looking for. That way you can explore all the works of a specific writer instead of just using the search bar on the tumblr dashboard, because for some reason, it never is accurate enough for me.

But don't even get me started on the size kink stuff.

I just love how feeling small and vulnerable, lying underneath a man who could tear me apart if he wanted to. There is just something so hot about it. Here he is, with the strength, but he's using it to make you feel good. ugh.

Also, here are some authors whose work I am in love with:

@stargirlfics @starktonyx @wadedickpool @holylulusworld @thorsthot @littlefreya @pastafossa @imaginemegood @hotdamnhunnam @carni-val @rayslittlekitten @little-diable @twola @emmcfrxst @messrmoonyy @lovearthur

[starry-bi-sky]

What's a scarier thing to say than 'I love you?' - DPXDC Stillborn Au Ficlet

Danny doesn't believe in the words "I love you".

People always say it's one of the scariest things people can say to another, because it lays them bare in front of the one they say it to, revealing their vulnerabilities and true thoughts and feelings to the world like an open wound. Telling someone you love them is the bravest thing you can do.

He thinks it's a load of bullshit. He's had two of his foster parents tell him they loved him, only to turn around and stab him in the back days, weeks, months, minutes later. Anyone can say they love you with nothing more than a sweet smile and a dagger hidden behind their spines. 'I love you' is an empty phrase, one that makes his heart beat unpleasantly in his chest and his palms sweat as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

'I love you' is a ploy. A plot. A lie. It's a coward's way out. If someone loves him, he wants them to show it, not say it. Because if 'I love you' is such a scary thing to say, it should be easier to show it in their hands, in their actions.

Wanna know what he thinks is the scariest thing in the world to say? What most people hem and haw and try and avoid? Try and deny, deny, deny?

The words, 'I hate you'.

There, that's the scariest thing in the world to say. Everybody can say 'I love you' and say they mean it, he's found that nobody wants to say 'I hate you' and say they mean it. That's a phrase everyone gets uncomfortable with, that everyone doesn't want to believe no matter how much you insist it.

Danny wonders a lot about why that is. Why everyone can love everyone, but nobody can hate anybody.

He thinks it's because hate can be personal in a way that's too similar to love. You can hate in a lot of ways, just like you can love a lot of ways. But in order to hate someone, really hate someone, in a way that's not far off and distant like distaste, but truly personal, burning and all-consuming loathing, you need to care about them in some way.

To hate someone implies an investment in their well-being in a way that mirrors love. It indicates a level of importance that person holds in your life that exceeds beyond simple indifference or disgust (an emotion easily mistaken for hatred despite its fleetingness).

To hate someone and to say you hate someone means that the thought of them fills you with a fire that carves into the marrow of your bones. That you think of them, even if it's not in a good way. To hate you need passion. To love you need passion.

To look someone in the eyes and say you hate them, and truly, really mean it, that is something that takes courage. That is something that requires you to lay your soul bare and reveal your vulnerabilities like an open wound.

But he supposes he can understand the confusion.

Hate and Love are not opposites after all, they're siamese twins.

Nobody ever wants to say they hate someone. Everyone wants to say they love somebody.

He wishes his foster parents had just said outright they had hated him, he wishes they hadn't strung him along with calorie-less love. He wishes they had just left him alone rather than sat him on the rug they were gonna pull out from under his feet. The ones who said they loved him hurt worse than the ones that never said it at all.

At least the people who said they hate him are honest about it.

What was he doing again?

He curls tighter into himself, his arms squeezing around his legs as burning magma flow spills over his shoulders and cocoons him away from the chill of the living. Danny's hair had broken out of its braid some time ago, and he'd burned off the excess lava and thrown it to the side to get it off his back, but it never takes long to grow back longer.

It's fine, it's fine. It's letting him hide.

Danny's not sure how long he sits there, stewing in his own heat and hurt, but it's long enough that he forgets why he's even there in the first place. It's long enough that the terrified fury lashing out in his core like a solar flare cools and settles, and then forgets why it was even lashing out at all.

It's long enough that he falls asleep.

Long enough that when he wakes up, it's to the feeling of a hand pushing away his hair like one pushes back a curtain in order to peer at the sunrise behind it. Fingers, sharp, clawed, brush over the bridge of his nose and his cheek in order to tuck the magma out of his face.

There's only one person capable of touching his hair -- made of magma and always burning, reflecting his own feelings, untouchable to the living -- without melting their hand right off. Danny peeks open his bleary, tear-sore eyes, and sees Vlad Masters, as Plasmius, kneeling through his lashes.

He's too exhausted to be angry at his appearance. Danny goes to say something -- to ask why he's here, why he's bothering him -- and all it comes out as is incoherent grumbling. Plasmius breathes out through his nose, a soft little sighing sound that follows with a smile shadowing over his mouth.

It's terribly fond, it's terribly foreign, and it sparks terror in Danny's heart.

(Sam compared him once to a traumatized alley cat, she wasn't that far off from it.)

"There you are." Plasmius says, voice terribly soft and just the slightest bit chiding. He brushes more of Danny's hair out of the way, thumb brushing over his brow bone, affection that he acts as if it's so easy to give. As if it’s so easy to extend to him, like he deserves it. Affection that Danny is so horribly starved for that the feeling makes him both nauseous and ravenous. "Your little friends were worried about you. When they couldn't find you, they called me."

Again goes unsaid and un-lingering, but it still pierces guilt through Danny like a shot to the head. It's not the first time this has happened, and he doubts it will ever be the last. He squeezes his eyes shut in shame, and ducks his head down into his knees like a scolded child.

Apologies come easy, like an automated message machine, even if it burns and thickens the back of his throat. Danny swallows the heat in his mouth and reaches for something even easier to say; "Go away."

Plasmius clucks his tongue, completely unaffected, and his hands move to gather the magma spilling over Danny's shoulders into his palms. "And leave you alone? I'm your archnemesis, little badger, I'm afraid that's not allowed."

Danny tries to glare at him even if his core swells with a feeling he can't name, a burning, gelling feeling like a bubble in a volcano about to burst. He tries again, and bares his fangs for good measure, "Fuck off."

His voice breaks, trembling like a little kid, and lacks any sincerity or bite.

Again, Plasmius just looks terrifyingly fond, if a bit exasperated, his eyes rolling despite the lack of visible iris. Danny watches from the corner of his eye as the man's hands begin to superheat against his hair, glowing bright and brighter until it would've been blinding to anyone who wasn't dead, before yanking.

The magma disconnects from his head painlessly, and his hair is short once more. Plasmius tosses the excess off to the side with the rest, and sizzling fills the room as the lava sinks into the ground.

Plasmius' hands finds his face again, tucking his hair behind his ears before pulling him forward. Danny lets him move him bonelessly, fingers curling around his cloak as he sinks into the embrace. It's embarrassing how routine it is, how easy it is for Vlad to tuck him under his chin like a child. It's mortifying how easy it is for Danny to cling onto it.

He's terribly warm, and Danny is always so fucking cold. He doesn't know how to keep all the heat he gives off, and so he's always shivering. Vlad's hand smoothes down the nape of his neck, over his spine, and not for the first time, Danny wishes he was living with him instead.

He hates that he wants to live with Vlad instead of the Fentons. He hates that he can't. He hates that Vlad is so kind to him when they're not fighting. He hates that Vlad is the only other dead-alive person in the world and Danny can't go to him like he wants to. He hates that he wants to even despite it. He hates that Vlad insists on killing his foster parents. He hates that Vlad wants to avenge him. He hates that Vlad cares enough to want to. He hates-- he hates--

Danny breathes in thick, shaking, and hides. "I hate you."

Vlad rumbles low, laughing, and rubs circles between his shoulder blades soothingly. "I hate you too, Daniel."

He hates that Vlad knows what he means instead.

[jamisonsilvadrawsbad]

Chapter 4 of Reckless and Wild is out now!

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

Okay I love cannibal king!König. He's so... I dunno. He's not baby, that's for sure, but... He's pretty weird, but he's not fucked up like kidnapper!König. He just... I think i's been a while since he's loved like this before. Also, reader learns something very important about our man, so look forward to that!

TW: cannibalism, can be interpreted as treating foreign cultures as lesser

Wordcount: 1k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

The stars above twinkled with jubilant delight. They swirled and danced, trapped in an eternal cosmic waltz in the heavens. How you wished to join them.

You looked to your side, where your king rested beside you. From the sounds of it, he was still awake, but you couldn’t be sure. You wondered what he was thinking.

He was a simple creature to you. He barely spoke, and when he did he roared or barked or spat. His voice was always a second option to his fist. He was quick to lash out at his people, slam them into their place and tear them apart both physically and literally. He was cruel, he was violent, and unfortunately, he was yours. Or were you his? A part of you balked at the notion that you were subservient to such a lesser creature. You could speak eloquently. You could read and write. You were a civilized human being. He was… He was nothing, you determined. He was nothing and he never would be. He was less man and more and more animal. You could never let yourself be subjugated by him.

But you didn’t run from him. You could have left many times by now, but you stayed by his side. You told yourself it was strictly for survival purposes, but you’d come to appreciate your cannibal king. Sometimes he disgusted you, but on nights like tonight, you could pretend he understood you.

“Thank you.”

Your voice was a whisper in the wind, washing away with the whistles of wind in the waves of long grass.

He grunted in response. You pretended it meant, ‘You’re welcome’.

You stayed by your king’s side, but you couldn’t help but feel a crushing weight in your chest. You thought about the three soldiers again. You hoped that they had each other. You wished you were with them instead of here, trapped by your king.

Said king raised one long arm into the sky. His hand was visible only by a wreath of moonlight encircling him, a loving embrace from the night. You tried to see what he was pointing out, but you knew nothing of the cosmos. Instead, you watched as he whined and dropped his hand back to his chest. When you turned to face him, you were stunned by how beautifully the moonlight glinted off his golden mask, ran up his stolen antlers to paint his crown in light. You thought he looked almost innocent in the moonshine. The thought startled you.

Without thinking, you stretched out your hand and gently ran three fingers along his bicep. He flinched under your touch, whimpered boyishly.

“I wish you understood me,” you sighed.

He whined from the back of his throat.

“I don’t even know your name.”

The man coughed something out earnestly and hit his chest. You snorted and turned away. As you rolled onto your back, you felt a hand grab your wrist and pull you back to face him. Your eyes widened in horror as he hit his chest once more and made those syllables again. You glanced down at his hand, then his silhouetted face. He said it again and hit his chest to emphasize his point.

You watched him, listened to him, but you couldn’t understand what he was saying. You could tell he was trying to tell you something, but what? Was he upset by something? He didn’t sound angry, he sounded sad. Why did he sound sad? What could he-

The thought flashed through your mind like lightening.

“König,” you whispered.

He nodded like an ecstatic puppy.

Your jaw dropped. You tried to search for anything to tell you otherwise, but nothing happened.

“Your name is König.”

He nodded again.

You pointed at your chest and quietly told him your name. He repeated it back with snarled vowels. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know how he looked at you.

You reached out, letting your fingers tangle with his in the grass between you both.

This man, this beast, he knew what you said. He understood you. All this time, all these curses and cries, he understood you. When you begged and pleaded for him to stop before, he’d understood. All this time, all the curses and cries you’d sent up to the heavens, all your nights of sobbing in the blankets, he bore witness to it all. He understood you the entire time. You’d yearned for a companion, but he was always there.

If you were someone else, maybe this would’ve been when you asked questions. This would have been when you asked how long this animal man understood your words. You might have asked how he was civilized enough for a name. Most importantly, you would have asked how a man cut off from the rest of the world understood your language, understood you. If you were a more worldly woman, maybe you would have asked how a cannibal king came to have a German word as a name.

But you were not such a person. You were starved, cold and afraid. You’d been alone for so long that you hung onto that one single world with both hands and dug your teeth into the meat of it. You never knew you needed one word so badly. It wasn’t even a word, it was a name. But that name was so much more than a name. It was all you needed to know that you weren’t alone.

At some point, you started weeping. You only noticed when dirty fingers brushed the tears away from your puffy eyes. He tried to pull away from you, but you held onto his hand and pressed your cheek into his palm. It didn’t matter that his hand swallowed your entire head, it didn’t matter that these hands smelled of iron and sweet rot.

Your tears washed his skin. His skin, rough and leathery, was like merino wool. His breath, rotten and putrid, brushed over you as he shuffled closer to your side. You let yourself be pressed into his dirty skin. You could feel his thick body hair matted with blood. You tried to gently untangle it in your fingers, comb him like a lost lamb. 

He was a monster, but for the first time, you finally saw the cannibal king as a man.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

[autism-autobot]

Flower of a Poisonous Seed Story Facts!

Will be called FloaPS Facts!

Wukong carries his blanket everywhere with him now.

Nezha can tell when Wukong's pretending he's fine but really isn't. (Most people can't tell when Wukong is having a bad day)

Nezha found out that Wukong loves flowers and gets them whenever possible.

Spicynoodles and Freenoodles are canon in FloaPS

Red Son still doesn't know what happened between MK and his uncle Wukong.

MK seemed angry and quite nearly lashed out at him when asked, and Wukong just stared into the distance like he was having flashbacks and started crying. Red Son never asked either of them again.

MK and the rest of the crew don't know Wukong is sick. What they do know is that Wukong's house is covered in blood, smashed in picture frames, origami dragons, and drawings of various flowers.

Nezha was never able to fully wash the blood out of Wukong's house, and he stopped trying. Wukong didn't like seeing his house in such a state as it triggered him further. They've stayed at Nezha's house since then.

DBK carries Wukong around in a swaddled blanket. Even when Wukong could still walk on his own unhelped, he still did this.

Macaque hasn't seen Wukong's house yet, but noticed Wukong's heartbeat hasn't been at his house in a long time, and it concerns him.

MK didn't tell Red Son about Wukong's house because he didn't want Red Son or his family to worry about him.

Nezha has a list of planned babysitters for Wukong: 1. DBK + fam 2. Erlang Shen 3. Xiaotian Quan (Erlang's dog, who is very capable) 4. LITERALLY ANYONE ELSE 5. Li Jing

Most of heaven is aware that Wukong is sick. Some people don't care, others gossip about it, and some leave "get well soon" gifts for him, i.e., medicine, blankets, balloons, flowers, food (not peaches, not again), etc.

The initial reason Nezha didn't immediately take Wukong to a doctor is that hardly anyone in the medical field knows anything about stone monkeys.

Wukong's first pica incident left him without three of his limbs (arms and a leg), they grew back.

Nezha sometimes cries himself to sleep after Wukong has an incident and is asleep himself. Wukong doesn't know this.

DBK + fam aren't much better off, they worry too, but they're able to comfort each other.

Sometimes, Wukong gets overwhelmed and overstimulated and gets very quiet. Nezha has learned that quiet is rarely a good thing when it comes to Wukong.

Wukong likes to cuddle the closest person he's comfortable with when he's overstimulated. He'll smell their scent and get comforted by it.

Red Son once caught Wukong sniffing his hair and thought he just liked his conditioner. Wukong was just trying not to have a meltdown.

Wukong's only had a meltdown once since getting sick, and it caused him to be bedridden for a few days afterward.

Macaque can't hear Wukong's heartbeat when he's in heaven.

Wukong's favorite mobility aid is his cloud (which he also considers a pet), but it comes and goes as it pleases. He doesn't want to guilt-trip his cloud into staying with him 24-7.

@swkbiggestdefender @starrclown! @ainnur

Part 2

Masterpost

[starsfic]

Prompt (if taking them] Lady Iron Fan decides to show that she reciprocated Demon Bull King's interest by courtnapping him. The Brotherhood (especially Azure Luon) thinks its a normal kidnapping/act of war.

"You know, my brothers will think this is an act of war."

"Oh, really?" The beautiful woman hummed, setting down the jug and passing over the goblet of wine. DBK was almost charmed, except for the fact that he was still tied to his chair and couldn't pick it up.

No, actually, he was charmed. He had always imagined that he would be the one doing this, excluding the tying to a chair. That was just rude.

"Do you think this is an act of war?" Princess Iron Fan said, drawing his attention back. It wasn't hard, considering the fact that she was a gorgeous woman, even more beautiful when she was committing acts of violence.

"I mean, you do have the wrong atmosphere for such a thing." The room was set up with red and lavender furniture and soft candles. A delicious feast had been laid out, and the pink dress she wore was long and flowing, not meant for battle. "But you could be trying to lower my guard with that eyesore of a dress."

Her smile disappeared. "What's wrong with my dress."

Oh no. "I mean, nothing's wrong! I just think you would look good in purple- no, no. That would be wrong. That would dull your eyes." DBK leaned his face up, away from her furrowed brows and the droop of her lips, to think. "My friend, the Six-Eared Macaque, once gave this long lecture about costume design. The color of the fabric is important when accenting features...uh..." To be fair, DBK had kinda tuned out in the middle and most of that lecture had been aimed at Peng, who had ruined a very nice bolt of fabric Wukong had gotten Macaque as a gift. "Your eyes are a wonderful shade of amber and you have gorgeous dark curls..."

"Really?" The anger had faded from her voice now. "What do you think of them?"

"I mean, gold would accent your everything very nicely since it would match your eyes." DBK tried to think of what color would match her best, but now he was thinking of her just in gold jewelry, which was a very nice thought but very distracting. "But your hair is enough of a draw of its own. It would just need a statement piece. Anything else would drown out your beauty in gaudiness- oh! Red! That is what you would look best in-"

A soft laugh broke through his thoughts. DBK looked down to see the princess cover her mouth, but not enough to hide a beautiful smile. When her giggles came to an end, she looked up. "You are very charming, your Majesty. Are you like this to every girl you meet?"

"No. I mean, I've only ever been like that with Wukong, and he was less charmed."

Iron Fan shrugged. "I can't blame you for trying. He's very pretty."

"So are you."

She leaned against the table and smiled at him. "So are you. By the way, your brothers are trying to break down the door."

DBK blinked. Oh yeah. "Should I go talk to them so we can have dinner in peace?"

"No," Iron Fan's magic hummed, and then she had her distinct fan in hand. "It will give me a chance to change. I have a very lovely red dress in my trunk."

He couldn't wait.