#you had a nice sword

[doublegrinch]

No need to respond to this or post it at the fuck all (if you're not inclined), I just didn't want to be a weirdo and DM you out of the blue -

Your ace reaction was "biblically accurate hello kitty!" Which I didn't even notice because my healthcare worker ace brain reaction wasn't "wow nice tits!", I noticed that after with sapphic brain, it was

"I really hope their right boob is alright since they don't have their piercing in! Unless it's a stylistic choice, in which case, cute! Oh wait tits, right, wow yes beautiful breasts friend let me reblog that so more people get to see 💜🥰"

I don't know what that says about me 🤣🤣

Heya! It's okay, I've seen you around, I'm not weirded out by you asking haha. Most of my moots are people I'm fairly comfortable with them contacting me even if we haven't talked much ^^ And I think that says that you care about people's health and wellbeing first and foremost, and then their self-expression. And *then* tits. Which, honestly, based 😆

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[mmmairon]

Home was the only place left.

Prints

[dubiousdisco]

Johnny's ass keeps pushing Sento away from the support on his back because it's too big btw, do you think Sento knows. Is Sento aware that johnny's cheeks are constantly pushing it. And if so, do you think Sento cares at all, being a sword and all. Is that mundane for a sword. Does Sento compare whose backs or waists or butts or hands felt nicer. Does Kenshi know. Would it tell Kenshi that his hands are the most caring but Johnny's ass is the biggest.

[waterlinkedgirl]

Musical Touken Ranbu: Hanakage Yureru Tomizu (The Shadows of Flowers Swaying In The Whetwater) english subs

About a month later than I'd have liked, but here they are! Even if its writing is a bit more messy than usual, its core is very solid. Of course, Chougi's live song more than got away with me (it's got Japanese Sign Language), so if you could, please watch it gently.

I dedicate this to the friends of mine who love Ichigo Hitofuri. May you be unapologetically yourself, right the way you are.

Keep in mind that this is only the subtitle file, timed and tled to the DMM senshuuraku and BD/DVD. The archive version will have a talk at the start, so the starting times of the subs will have to be delayed accordingly.

You can find the subtitles and my TL document here!

[july-19th-club]

i know for a fact i have made this post before but for me it's very important that bbc merlin is a pointless tragedy. it wouldn't be good (it's frequently not good anyway but it would be a lot further away from good) if it wasn't a pointless tragedy! it's simply not arthuriana if it doesn't go past the high point of the heroic/legendary/high medieval romance stuff and end with detailed rundowns of exactly how everybody got betrayed and died like that is what makes it real arthuriana to me and not just a silly show about a wizard

[swordmaid]

i am wide awake thinking about that post canon jb au again when I should be sleeping …!!! such is the nature of the jbrainrot…

[utilitycaster]

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 110

Okay so we all know about how Regis told Dandelion in the books that his blood smelled nice, which was most likely about how none of his wounds were infected and whatnot, but what if it wasn't? What if Jaskier has a special type of blood, whether magically made, cursed, or perhaps just o- or some shit lmfao Either way, Vampires LOVE this shit. Their favorite delicacy when they choose to partake. This becomes a problem when Jaskier has a hurt foot and Geralt takes him to a medic. A vampire, whether the medic, the medic's assistant, or just someone lurking outside who caught a whiff of the blood, is like "Jackpot!" and tells all his little vampire friends, and now they're hosting a big feast just to drain this guy. But it's such a delicacy, the vampire decides maybe they should only drain him a little, so he can keep the human around, so the human can regain his blood, and they can drink from him AGAIN! Oh yes, marvelous! He throws the best parties! Jaskier wakes up with a horrible headache. He's dressed incredibly fancy, though he doesn't think these are his clothes- Speaking of which, he also doesn't think this is his room at the inn... Is he- Is he fucking chained to a dining table? "Let the buffet begin! I hope you're thirsty my friends!~" Fuck. He hopes Geralt gets here quick-

[tcfactory]

Please imagine:

[5k words of an outline for a big Bingge centric AU, mentioned QiJiu and MoShang and potentially one-sided BingQiJiu. Time travel, fix-it(?)

Warning for canon typical child abuse and torture, mention of sexual abuse, minor mention of cannibalism, Bingge is his own warning let’s be real]

Binghe goes insane from Xin Mo and abandons his humanity completely, then devolves further into a rabid beast until Mobei and the Wives all work together to put him down. Xin Mo is so entangled in him that it can’t exist past its host anymore, so it unleashes all that it has left to prevent Binghe’s death.

That’s when the reset happens.

It’s like coming back from the brink, when your head breaks the water and the dark recedes from the edge of your vision as air fills your lungs. Sanity is a cold thing when surfacing from the depths of madness, but it keeps the warm animal-hunger of bloodlust and beastly instinct on the edges of his consciousness and that’s fine.

He’s a child again when he regains conscious thought, standing in front of the tea set, about to make that first cup of tea for his future Shizun, and he can’t afford to be a beast right now. There’s a part of him that feels different, the parts that Xin Mo devoured alongside his sanity have now been returned to him, soft and squishy and human. It’s strange, coming back to humanity after so long - how long? Decades? Centuries? Time has lost all meaning to a beast that could hunt and breed whenever it pleased.

Binghe doesn’t remember how to make tea. He’s not certain he ever knew at this age, but the beast in him recoils at the memory of scalding tea dumped on his head. He looks around, as subtle as he can, to find something that might help him avoid that. Shen Qingqiu is talking to Ming Fan, rattling off the necessities they need to provide the first new disciple since Ming Fan became head disciple, but Binghe can feel the man’s attention on him. Shen Qingqiu has noticed his hesitation and he’s waiting to see what Binghe is going to do next. There’s no help to be had there.

Ning Yingying lurks around, too curious of the new shidi to stay away, and Shizun indulges her as long as she stays close enough that he can track her. She would know how to make tea. She has always been one of his smartest wives - she made the array that pinned him down and stripped him of fang and claw and poison so Mobei Jun could shove portals under his skin, drain him of his healing blood and finally unmake him.

It was an agonizing way to die. He deserved all of it and more.

When it seems like an opportune moment he quietly asks Yingying shijie how to make tea fit for their Shizun. She pretends to tie his hair for him - shidi can barely see through this fluff, this won’t do, here’s how you tie it properly - and tells him the instructions in a whisper so quiet even he can barely hear it. 

Shen Qingqiu notices, of course he does, but he pretends that he doesn’t. The tea is not great, but it’s palatable and Shen Qingqiu drinks all of it while he runs Binghe through the rules of the peak and the expectations placed on a scholarly disciple of Qing Jing. It’s such a jarring difference from the first time when he got sent away right after the tea incident that he can’t help but drift in his chaotically spinning thoughts instead of listening. This is not the kind Shizun, he thinks. So why did the tea make such a big difference? (Years later Yue Qingyuan happily tells him how he blackmailed one of the rich boys into showing him how to make tea for his own peak’s tea ceremony because he didn’t trust the adults enough to ask and couldn’t afford to seem lesser than those of higher birth and Binghe finally Gets It.)

His thoughts are interrupted when Ming Fan arrives and shoves the ‘new disciple care package’ in his arms. Binghe is still not used to being tiny again, so he tries to hold all of it like he would as an adult and can’t, dropping his manual and the writing kit in the process. Yingying immediately hops to pick it all up, scolding their shixiong for bullying the new shidi while Shen Qingqiu watches with a cold mask of indifference.

The manual has fallen open and it gives her pause when she picks it up. “Shizun, I don’t think this manual is right.” Shen Qingqiu says nothing, but he takes it from her and glances at the pages.

Binghe is certain that he’s the only one who notices how Shizun’s hold on the book tightens in anger until his fingers turn white. “It’s an older manual,” he says, neither voice nor expression giving away the rage he must feel to grip the book so tight. Luo Binghe knows even his smallest tells and the man is seething. “Go to the library pavilion and pick up the proper edition for your shidi. Dismissed!”

It’s a few days later when Binghe is trying to find a good spot in the library to practice his calligraphy - he knows how to write, in theory, but he forgot so many of these mundane little rituals in his madness that he needs to refresh the memory - when he walks into the range of a silencing array. It’s obviously a fluke that it extends into the corridor, but if Binghe puts his ear to the wall he can clearly hear Shen Qingqiu rage at his hallmasters and the head of the library pavilion because of the manual. The fake, harmful cultivation manual, one of many that have ruined and killed lonely disciples before, the ones who didn’t have friends or other support to notice that something was wrong.

Manuals Shen Qingqiu has ordered removed and destroyed when he became peak lord. Orders that the hallmasters ignored. Does Peak Lord Shen think they have the time to waste on something like this when the peak is already short staffed? There are more important parts of the collection to maintain than the beginner manuals - the only ones who would ever fall prey to the false manuals anyway are the charity cases, and they are not the ones who fund the scholarly peak. Really, this wouldn’t even be an issue at all if Shen Qingqiu didn’t let Liu Qingge goad him into taking on a dirty beggar child. Don’t they all know that things crawling in the dirt are never worth the trouble? Once filth, always filth.

Luo Binghe is almost bowled over when Shen Qingqiu storms out of the meeting, blind to his environment. The man’s qi roils, razor sharp like shattered glass, his anger driving him to the cusp of a qi deviation. Binghe has a hunch that whatever this is about, it’s not about him. Shizun would not be so angry on his behalf.

He could never figure out why the man mistreated him, could never break Shen Qingqiu open enough to get the answer he needed. This feels like an opportunity, a chance to unravel this puzzle, and it tickles his instincts to have something to chase, to press his nose to the trail and hunt.

So he starts to sniff around. People overlook children so easily, it’s almost effortless how he finds piece after piece. He learns that the people on the peak - the cultivators from his generation in particular, the pavilion overseers and the hallmasters - don’t respect Shen Qingqiu and often undermine his authority when he’s not there to personally force them to adhere to his standards. There’s an especially tense period every time after the Peak Lord leaves for the city - for the brothel, they say, to drown in his lust or to use some hapless girl as a cauldron and bolster his own mediocre cultivation - when they seem especially bold, holding his indulgence over his head like a finely balanced sword.

He learns from Yingying that he’s the first disciple to get into the peak through the selection for the last decade. All the other disciples are young masters and scholarly prodigies who come recommended by their mentors. They don’t need their Shizun’s encouragement to try and bully Binghe, even when he’s not rolling over like he did in his first life. He fights back, tooth and nail, a rabid little thing that leaves scratches and bruises on anyone who would provoke him and he doesn’t have to worry about sleeping in the woodshed because more often than not the dormitory overseers isolate him from the others as a form of punishment.

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t interfere. He looks with the same disdain at both perpetrators and victim, bruised black and blue, and forbids them from leaving the peak until they are presentable again. It’s not until a particularly bad fight when Binghe takes a bite out of one of them, digging his teeth into a soft cheek and swallowing both the bloody chunk and the screams of terror with dark satisfaction, that Shizun’s hand is forced. Binghe is thrown into solitary confinement until the boy’s parents can come and demand fitting punishment for permanently disfiguring the rich brat. Binghe is grateful for these few days of isolation. He needs them to shackle the instincts screaming for blood, to calm his demon side that’s straining against his seals. It wasn’t like this the first time, but he came back as a beast in a boy’s skin so it’s not surprising.

He puts on the face of a lamb when they lead him outside, to the cold morning light and then to the punishment hall. The boy’s parents - a high-ranking official in the mortal Emperor’s court and his lady wife - look at him like he’s less than dirt, but there’s a glint of cruel satisfaction in their eyes when the stone faced Shen Qingqiu announces his punishment: by their demand, Binghe is to receive ten lashes with the discipline whip, or fewer if he passes out.

The Sect Leader came to oversee the punishment and the horror on his gentle face is obvious to all. The disciple whip is a cruel thing, one that can cripple even advanced cultivators, and will set Binghe’s cultivation back by years if it doesn’t ruin it altogether. The Sect Leader gives Shen Qingqiu a pleading look and Binghe lifts his head to tell him not to bother - when could Yue Qingyuan ever influence Shen Qingqiu for the better? - so he catches the Sect Leader’s expression when Shen Qingqiu flicks the case open and takes out the whip. Just for a moment, his expression flickers into surprise, then relief, before it turns into a blank mask. Binghe has no time to ponder what the hell that is about, because Shen Qingqiu swings the whip with the ease and confidence of practice and the line of fire down his back startles a scream out of him. He lived a whole life as a warlord and demon, but this body is that of a human child, unaccustomed to this sort of pain.

The world fades to black after two more strikes.

When he comes to, he is laying in a soft bed. The bedding smells clean, but oddly stale - like a guest bed they only air out every other day, but never use. He turns his head and the bamboo house comes into focus. It’s Shizun’s room and Shizun’s bed, but that makes no sense - where does the man sleep if not in his own bed? His cultivation isn’t good enough to forgo sleep altogether. There’s something here, a corner piece to this puzzle Binghe is struggling to fit into the big picture. Is this why Shizun keeps going to the brothels? Can he only find rest in the embrace of women? Binghe, formerly a very active master of a harem with hundreds of wives and concubines, can’t judge him for that. He already dismissed the rumors about Shizun abusing a cultivation cauldron; dual cultivation is one of the few methods to mend ruined meridians and Binghe still remembers how wrecked Shen Qingqiu’s cultivation was when he caught him.

There is yelling from the main room, Mu shishu’s incensed voice and the low rumble of the Sect Leader as he tries to calm him. Eventually a blank faced Shizun leads both of them inside and Mu shishu ignores all etiquette to rush to the bed and take stock of Binghe’s injuries. 

“These… these are not the marks of a discipline whip,” he says, confused and relieved. 

“Of course not,” Shen Qingqiu scoffs. “I don’t keep one of those wretched things around on my peak. As if those fools could tell the difference between a discipline whip and a regular slaver’s whip. All they wanted was to hear the little beast scream.” 

The Sect Leader hurriedly reassures Mu shishu that the whip strikes are painful, but with the right treatment they won’t even scar. 

“Zhangmen-shixiong, are you saying that from experience?” Mu Qingfang asks, massaging his temples and startles a little when Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan say “Yes!” in perfect unison. Another corner piece for the puzzle.

After his injuries are treated and Yue Qingyuan shepherds the healer outside, Binghe is left alone with Shen Qingqiu.

“What am I to do with you, little beast? If you don’t learn to rein yourself in, I will kick you off my peak before you can drag our reputation down.”

“He deserved it. They started it.”

“And? This is not Bai Zhan. You are in no position to make such a ruckus about things. Your stunt lost Qing Jing almost a tenth of our yearly funding. My own shizun would have beaten me to death if I pulled something so idiotic.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” He’s starting to understand Shen Qingqiu, the wretched little slave, who clawed his way up to become Peak Lord despite his ruined cultivation and digs his teeth into what’s his so nobody can take it away, but he still wants to hear it from the man himself. “Do I remind you of yourself, Shizun?”

“Little beast, you are asking for a beating.” Shen Qingqiu forgot his fan, or else he’d be hiding behind it, as always. Binghe’s Shizun has such a terribly thin face. “You have potential and drive to make something of yourself. I want to see how far it will take you. If you learn how to hide your claws better.”

Oh, Binghe knows exactly how far he can go. But he humors his Shizun and does a demonstration of his White Lotus routine. Shizun fetches a fan just so he can smack him over the head, but says that it’s an adequate act, for now. However, if Binghe can’t fool the peak into believing that he mellowed out from the punishment, then he shouldn’t expect help from his master!

They settle into an understanding over the next few years. They are not of a kind, but they are both beasts after a fashion and now that he finally peered under Shen Qingqiu’s unbreakable armor, he doesn’t resent the man as much. Is he himself not a violent, monstrous thing once you peel off his pleasant facade? What filled the human child with fear and resentment entices the adult demon that now lives in his skin. Besides, Shizun hasn’t hurt him in this life. Shen Qingqiu usually lets him be, only interacting with him as much as any other discipline, but sometimes under the guise of chores he takes remedial lessons to perfect his act. The years he let go of his humanity took their toll and he needs the guidance to set some of the details right.

“I think I might be part demon,” Luo Binghe says one day, sipping tea in the bamboo house. For two hours straight Shizun poked and prodded at his insecurities, reaching for a level of unpleasantness he doesn’t often aim at him and Binghe kept his mask of a perfect, demure youth all throughout. At the end of it Shizun poured him a cup of tea and reluctantly praised his acting. It’s a thorny thing, Shizun’s praise, but it has set a warmth in Binghe’s chest that refuses to go away.

“You are fifteen. It’s probably just puberty.” Binghe laughs at his Shizun’s expression of disgust. Shen Qingqiu is technically not wrong either, because it’s his steadily growing sex drive that keeps aggravating his demon half. “I have met men who wish they could be demons. I don’t care as long as you don’t tarnish the reputation of the sect.”

“The sect or Qing Jing Peak?”

“The sect. Drag me down with your madness if you want. I chose to take responsibility for you as your Shizun, but leave the others out of it.” 

The others in this case, Binghe has learned, means Yue Qingyuan. Binghe is not sure what ties the two men together (ten thousand arrows and a throat split open on the shards of a blade) but it’s a kind of devotion and he wants it for himself. He set this thread of fate against Xin Mo’s blade and it remained unbroken, so he wants to tangle himself up in it until he can forget that he has no thread of his own. He couldn’t find true peace in the embrace of a thousand women, but when he imagines himself sandwiched between Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan, the most resilient and the strongest man the human realm can offer, he thinks he could be satisfied. Shen Qingqiu’s sharp edges stimulate the demon part of him that wants to court with his fangs and claws bared and Yue Qingyuan’s soft brotherly manners soothe the neglected human boy he tried to rip out of his soul, but never managed. They would be perfect.

But first he has to find out why Shen Qingqiu keeps pushing the Sect Leader away and mend their relationship somehow, and a crucial step to that is making sure Liu Qingge lives. Binghe now suspects that the Bai Zhan War God’s death was an accident, but it drained Shen Qingqiu of any will to stand up for himself and he can’t allow that to happen this time around.

“When I passed Liu shishu earlier I sensed that his qi was unbalanced. He is heading to a deviation soon.” He can blame it on his Shizun that he learned to sniff out impending qi deviations, because Shen Qingqiu had them often and always, always tried to cover them up. “I know he is going to Lingxi caves for isolated cultivation and I overheard Mu shishu say that Shizun is following him in a fortnight. I want Shizun to be prepared to call for help if Liu shishu turns violent and attacks him.”

It’s a battle to convince Shizun to take the emergency talismans, but Binghe eventually wears him down. He spends the whole night before Shizun enters the caves drawing the talismans; it’s his punishment for bothering Shen Qingqiu so much in the past two weeks. Soon after, the Sect Leader leaves and Binghe doesn’t remember the exact timeline anymore, but it sounds like things are happening the way they did before; Liu Qingge’s death and the demon invasion was barely a week apart and Yue Qingyuan was absent for both. So Binghe loiters around the emergency medical team and waits.

Nobody notices it when he slips into the backline of the emergency team, keeping pace with them through the winding pathways of the Lingxi caves until something calls out to him, his instincts suddenly on high alert, and he falls behind, just as unnoticed. The side cavern is almost completely blocked off and once Binghe squeezes inside he can’t see anything, but he doesn’t need his eyes to tell what happened. Poisonous, disturbed qi saturates the cavern, heavy on his tongue with pain and fear and desperation, the rage of a dragon trapped in a bottle, thrashing to break free. He can feel the marks gouged into the walls when he touches them, can taste the blood saturating the surface when he licks along a deep crack.

A beast was trapped in here, a beast that tastes like Yue Qingyuan.

The discovery makes him giddy and he has to tear himself away from the cavern before the qi could damage his human cultivation or the sweet song of blood could awaken his demon half. Outside he finds that things happened as he expected, and to his relief both Peak Lords live. Liu Qingge seems unbearably insistent on undoing the damage he did to Shen Qingqiu’s reputation in the past, but Shizun seems just as annoyed by his attempts as Binghe, so it’s fine.

The demon invasion happens just on schedule and Binghe goes in with a plan to use the demon elder’s poisonous attack to pretend that was what awakened his demon half. It's a good plan, one that's immediately dashed by Liu Qingge, who can't bear to sit and watch when Shen Qingqiu gets to fight. For a blissful moment Binghe entertains the idea of revealing himself anyway and ripping Liu Qingge limb from limb, but he restrains himself and moves right on.

The encounter with Meng Mo is different. In the dream realm Binghe is not a child and he shuts off access to the dream before the old demon can pull anyone else in with them. Then he bows to the elder with all the respect his old mentor earned in that other life. “This Binghe is overjoyed to see Meng shushu has found him again.”

It’s strange, to explain what happened to him to someone who can’t possibly remember those events, but Meng Mo takes it all with grace, even when Binghe admits that Xin Mo trapped the demon in his own nightmare and slowly consumed him. Binghe doesn’t strictly need the grandfatherly old demon in his head - because as much as Meng Mo would deny it, Binghe has met enough demon families to now recognize him for the very typical demonic grandfather that he is - but his presence feels right and his power can tide them over until Binghe decides to break the seals.

Together they hatch a plan to trap his Shizun and his Shibo in a dream until they are forced to talk to each other. It’s easier said than done, because with Liu Qingge nipping at his heels again to demand a spar (get a hint already shishu, Shizun doesn’t see sparring as a bonding activity and you never told him that you mean it that way!) Shen Qingqiu refuses to go down to the brothel to sleep. Finally, when sleep deprivation is driving Shizun to the brink of a qi deviation, Binghe has enough and bluntly presents him with a sleep tonic. “You can take it willingly or I can hit you over the head and take you down to the city. Your choice, Shizun.”

It’s enough of a threat that Shen Qingqiu allows Binghe to distract Liu shishu with a barrage of very specific questions about an upcoming nighthunt and sneaks out to the city himself. The distance would usually be a bit bothersome, but Binghe can grasp the thread tying Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu together and pull them into a joint dream in the middle.

It’s worse than he expects. He gets a front row seat to their worst nightmares and even fully knowing that these are only memories, his demon blood burns to rip their enemies apart. Meng Mo bodily drags him outside of the dream so his enraged howling can’t disturb the long overdue reconciliation between Xiao Jiu and his Qi-ge.

“He was so cruel to me in that first life, I never imagined that he ever had it worse,” Binghe admits quietly when his rage has cooled, pale as a ghost as they watch the shade of Qiu Jianluo force himself on his child slave.

“Have you ever…?”

“No. Even I had my limits. I made sure they wanted me, even if they regretted it afterwards.” How many women did he feed to Xin Mo’s endless appetite over the years? He never counted. Meng Mo just hums and then shoos him away; the old demon can maintain the dream until the humans are done sorting themselves out and it’s probably not good for Binghe’s psyche to watch all of this.

The next few years are a blur. Binghe keeps his distance from Shen Qingqiu when it becomes clear that the reconciliation followed them out of the dream. He doesn’t want Shen Jiu to think of him as a disciple, a child, he wants to leave and return as a dashing suitor, so he watches from afar as things slot into a much more pleasing picture than before. With Yue Qingyuan’s broad shoulders propping him up, Shen Qingqiu finally gains the power to back up his words and a genuine confidence to match his proud bearing. He kicks all his detractors off Qing Jing and calls an audit from An Ding to clean up all the leftover filth before the new hallmasters take their post. Yue Qingyuan shuts down a nasty comment during a peak lord meeting about Shen Qingqiu’s brothel visits by reminding everyone that they are allowed to visit their family outside the sect if they want to, and this is everything the sect gossip talks about for the next sennight. It prompts Ning Yingying to bashfully admit to her trusted Luo shidi that her mother is one of Shen Qingqiu’s 'sisters', that she joined the sect on his recommendation. Maybe A-Luo would like to meet her sometime? He’s like a little brother to Yingying and she wants him to meet her family. 

Not everything is perfect, of course. Qing Jing is still heavy on the physical punishment, second only to Bai Zhan, because the fear of pain works extremely well on the rich brats, but Binghe’s growing restlessness sees him punished more than all the disciples put together and on him it has a very different effect. He can’t help it, his libido is out of control and the people he wants are out of his reach, so the only things he can channel his restless energy is aggression and too long nights of masturbation that leave him too tired to function the following day. At one point Shen Qingqiu even threatens him with the whip again if he doesn’t cut it out, and the thought of Shen Qingqiu whipping him bloody fuels his fantasies for the next several weeks.

It’s three months before the Immortal Alliance Conference when Meng Mo digs his heels in about the course of their future.

“We are not getting Xin Mo.”

“I need it if I want to become strong again.”

“I reviewed all of your memories and I can confidently say that’s not true. The wretched thing hurt you more than it ever helped.”

“I will never get out of the abyss without it. I need it for that long and then I will lock it away.”

“If you pick it up you will never be able to put it down again. Just like in that other life.”

“Then what do you suggest? Am I to just stay in the abyss and perish?!”

“No, of course not. Ask Xiao Mobei to teach you his portal trick.”

“... Let’s start with the obvious that it would not work and let’s not go into the logistics of how I’m even supposed to get hold of him.”

“You have actively used Xin Mo for fifteen centuries.” Was it really that long? It didn’t feel that long. “You have absorbed enough of its residual energy that with the right teacher you should be capable of learning portal manipulation. Whether the Mobei boy is willing to teach you or not is another matter.”

“We were friends before I went insane.” Before he merged the realms and accidentally destroyed Mobei’s entire kingdom and all his subjects in the process. “I think I have a way to convince him.”

Thus starts the long chase to get into Shang Qinghua’s house so Binghe can talk to him in private. It’s much easier said than done. Much as Qinghua has made his peak self-sustaining, he is still busy as hell and when he's not then he's in his leisure house which is the most well-warded building in the entire sect. They only manage a meeting with two weeks left to go before the conference.

At least convincing Shang Qinghua is easy enough. “I recently found out that I'm part demon and I want your prince to help me get away after the conference” is a clear motivation why Binghe would want to talk to Mobei and “I can see from your bruises that he's trying to court you - very carefully, by his standards, I don't see any frostbite - I can make him understand that you are not interested or how to do it the human way, whichever you prefer” makes Qinghua’s expression twist into something both calculating and flustered. The wonders a millennia lived as mostly a demon does, Binghe muses. He was too young and too human to realize that Mobei was pining hard for his little snake of an advisor the first time around. He's not surprised when it all turns into a Human Courting Dos and Don’ts 101. He's not sure if Qinghua is really interested or he's just too scared to turn Mobei down, but when he comes to finalize the details of his getaway the leisure house stinks to the high heavens of happy ice demon, so it's working at least.

He talks Mobei down from letting his entire menagerie loose on the disciples (Qinghua breathes a sigh of relief. He might be able to keep his position as a spy and not lose all his enrolled disciples after all) and shows him where to send the most dangerous beasts for a more targeted attack against Huan Hua’s adult cultivators. Binghe doesn't much care about the disciples, but the least amount of damage done against the sect, the more likely Shen Qingqiu will take him back soon once he returns.

The night before the Conference he finally visits Shen Qingqiu in his dream to show the man his true self. “I told you that I'm a demon.” In the dream Qingqiu is scrawnier and not quite the perfectly polished image of a peerless immortal. Binghe revels in tracing his eyes over all the scars he can see that have been long erased from his skin in the waking world. “I need to leave for a time, after the conference. But do not fret. When I return I will be Junshang and lay the demon world in front of you and Sect Leader Yue as a courting gift.”

He keeps Shen Qingqiu in the dream long enough that his Shizun can't talk to him in person before the event begins. It would spoil the fun to have a fight with his future intended before the hunt.

This plan, unlike the demon invasion one, goes off without a hitch. When Qinghua is portaled into Mobei’s palace a week later for one last report before Binghe leaves, the man has only good news - the sect only suffered injuries and no deaths, and as an added bonus the Iceclaw Assassin Wolf they dropped into the Huan Hua ranks took out the Old Palace Master and his most trusted people before it self destructed. It’s a better outcome than he dared to hope for.

Mobei refuses to teach him portals (for now) but gives him a token that can portal him out of the abyss if things get dicey or Binghe is done training, so that's fine as well. All is ready. Binghe is going to go into the abyss and then seven years later he’ll come back out, fully in control of his heavenly demon heritage and as much of a beast in body as he is in spirit.

The Northern Consort greets him coldly, glaring at him from under a huadian painted with Mobei Jun’s blood that leaves no doubt in anybody’s mind about the king’s devotion to his little human husband. “What took you so long?” Shang Qinghua asks, unwinding one of his many layers of fur and dropping it on the shivering Binghe. The pelt barely covers his shoulders, but it warms Binghe all the same. “Zhangmen-shixiong has been hounding me day and night about your return. Shen Qingqiu refuses to hold their wedding without you there.”

“Ah, but Shang shishu.” Binghe spreads his arms wide, showing off his new physique with a grin. “I promised to lay the demon world before their feet. I couldn’t possibly return before I was capable of upholding that promise!”

Consort Shang is unimpressed.

“Next time, just get them a stick of tanghulu to share. Much easier to get and I bet you anything they would appreciate it more.”

He might not be wrong about that. What is the demon world to a pair of slave boys who rose to the top of the cultivation world on their own power? Comfort food made by his own hand is a much sweeter gift.

Binghe is still going to conquer the demon world for them regardless. He promised, after all, and what kind of husband would he be if he went back on his promises?

[grapecaseschoices]

i know people dont like playing warrior in da. but grappling hook has to be one of the sexiest and coolest moves ever on a per-specialization ability tree.

[softquietsteadylove]

I know you said you don’t love writing thenamesh as actual biological parents (totally respect that and agree, I especially agree that Thena probably wouldn’t be the most willing mother (although I live and die for TMTL AU)) ANYWAY! would you possibly be interesting in writing something where Thenamesh accidentally stumble into parenthood without meaning to?? Maybe a little orphan child in ancient times won’t leave them alone and they end up raising them? (probably begrudgingly on Thena’s part to begin with but she’s a secret softie especially when Gil is smitten and we all know it). No worries if you don’t wanna write something like that, just something I was thinking about!

Thena sighed, "I know you're there."

She didn't receive a reply, and she knew she wouldn't. She stood from where she had been - entirely against her wishes but at Ajak's behest - reviewing some of the senate's requests. The various war orders and border reports were draining her.

She stepped down towards the door of the room, the skirts of her white toga trailing behind her. She spoke again, "orphan."

He responded to more than that, of course. Sersi thought it was cruel of her to address a child that way, but he responded to it. A small head of blonde peeked out from behind one of the larger vases.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him with an expectant tone. She raised her chin to further look down upon the boy, "you know better than to enter the temple of Athena without permission."

Usually, she was loath to bring up the title of Athena in any way. But if she need be stuck with it, she could make use of it.

The boy shuffled out, his hands clasped in front of the brown burlap of his tunic. "I was looking for Gilgamesh."

The boy was positively enchanted by her Champion. Plenty were, of course, but this boy idolised Gilgamesh and the very ground upon which he walked. And Gil was equally charmed by the small child. She thought he entertained his obsession entirely too much.

But the boy enjoyed trailing behind Gilgamesh when he was walking between the forge and the acropolis, or watching him train fighters in the arenas, or even when he was in the orchards gathering fruit.

"Why do you think he is here?" Thena fixed her eyes on the boy. Most grown men would be sensible enough to cower, but the child stepped even closer to her.

He glanced behind him a few times.

Thena let out another breath. She was not a caretaker, she had no business with the boy steps away from clinging to her. But she unfolded her arms and knelt down to see him better. Children's heads were so small. "Speak."

"The guards," the child twisted his lips. "They tell me not to bother the gods."

They also were no gods of old, at least not how Athens imagined them to be. But Thena had no qualms letting them think that if it meant them keeping their distance, either.

"And if they are correct to tell you these things?" she raised her eyebrows. But the boy shuffled even closer to her. She sighed, "what did you do?"

This child was no angel, just like they were no gods. He liked getting into trouble, challenging those twice his size, proclaiming that he would be a fierce warrior someday. And sometimes that 'challenge' was him running up to someone and whacking them with his only possession: a toy sword, fashioned from wood (clumsily, by his own hand).

"They were being cruel," he spoke in defense of himself. His hands left his tunic to clench into tiny little righteous fists. "They were laughing at old man Socrates! One even threw his apple at him!"

Thena felt her hackles raise. She had no business policing humans; they were of no concern to her. But what did bother her was senseless cruelty to those more vulnerable than the strong. "And you decided to do something about this."

The boy's small shoulders fell again, though. "I told them I challenged them to a duel."

Thena tilted her head. His tunic was still fastened above his trousers with a rope, but there was no toy sword. "Where is-"

He sniffled, trying not to let his tears fall, "they took it and broke it in half."

That was why he had run to her. Well, he had been seeking Gilgamesh's comfort, foremost. But he had also known that if the authorities of Athens were the ones committing an injustice, only the gods would correct them.

Thena frowned at the child's tears dropping onto the stone floor. He wasn't her child; he was no one's. He was, like many others, a result of the many wars Athens had waged before, and were attempting to continue waging. It was exactly that which she was opposing, despite her title as their figurehead for war.

Footsteps approached, heavily and loudly. The boy nearly leapt in fear and scurried to hide himself behind her, even tugging at her dress like a tapestry to hide his feet.

She glanced somewhat over her shoulder in the direction of the little head of blonde hair, getting tears and snot all over her pure white robes.

"Goddess Athena!" the guards greeted her before all else. Their heavy armour and leather skirts made sound with every breath they took. "Forgive our intrusion."

She said nothing.

"We were pursuing a street urchin, and we fear he may have run in here." The captain of their group stepped forward, the adornment on his helmet distinguishing him from the others. "We wish not to disturb you. But we cannot let a stray mutt wander into the hall of gods."

Thena looked at each of them. She owed them no words, and they had no right to ask them. Her lips twitched. "You have a splinter."

The guard seemed embarrassed, rubbing at his arm. "Forgive me, O-Warrior. I was struck with a splintering old board."

A child's toy, now no doubt sitting broken in the streets. Thena looked at the others. "Which of you ate the apple?"

They looked between themselves, confused. "My Lady?"

"One of you was eating an apple," she continued, raising her empty palm. They knew what that meant, stepping back. "And threw it at a harmless old philosopher."

Their faces went pale. It brought some joy to her, but she kept her face even. Their fear was the best part of her day. Rather than deny the wisdom of the Goddess of War, they knelt. "We beg your forgiveness, great Athena."

She drew back, her blade in her hand in a second. She took a harmless swipe over their heads, although the tops of their helmets fell unceremoniously to her floor like feathers from a startled bird.

The men trembled.

Satisfied that her message was received, she retracted her powers like a cat closing its paws. "Be gone from my sight."

The men obeyed, scurrying away, abandoning the remains of their rank, leaving them to explain what had happened to their uniform. If she ever did see them again, she would not be so kind as to let them go with their dignity.

"They will not bother you again," she said more quietly. The boy was strong; he had stopped trembling. And he had, at the very least, the wisdom to let her face his multiple foes.

He sniffled one last time before stepping away from her protection. "They always do, eventually."

Then next time, she would have them begging her for their lives. She kept her eyes looking out the door as she patted the boy's head. She wouldn't have been able to read the expression on his face regardless. "Gilgamesh should be done in the forge by now. He may even take you to the great hall. I believe they are making the baklava today."

The child's eyes lit at the promise of sweets. "Can I have some?"

She did her best not to smile, lest she encourage his youthful impertinence. But she may not have been entirely capable of suppressing it. "Tell them Athena herself demands it."

The boy didn't even look twice at her, running towards the door and nearly slipping in his old, worn sandals.

"Heracles," she called after him. He turned at the sound of his name. "Return with Gilgamesh. We will show you how to strike someone properly."

The boy beamed. His cheeks were ruddy and his teeth were small and uneven, and yet they fit his cherubic face. "Yes, Thena!"

He had heard Gil address her casually too often. If he called her that, what if others thought it acceptable? But she couldn't bring herself to be angry with the boy. It was far too difficult to hold a grudge against something so sweet and innocent.

Technically, the senate decrees still needed seeing to. But she had more important things to think about. And before young Heracles returned with Gilgamesh in hand, she had some whittling to do. She wasn't Phastos, or Sersi, by any means, but even she could carve a sword out of some spare wood.

[vodka-and-ocs]

Peste, war priest of Xiombarg, Queen of Swords

aka my Mournblade (ttrpg) version of Mournblade (oc)

[lacnunga]

No pressure to read it at all but here's a wee drabble about my ocs, specifically Perfidious ruining his own fucking life by telling Eustace what an asshole he's been their entire friendship

"Come in, come in, im glad to see you, Fideous," Byng said excitedly, practically grabbing my arm to pull me into his little room. It was a plain but cosy affair, unlike the stuffy little rooms aboard the Advantage which stank and putrified even with every gun hatch thrown open for air - here, the landlady at at least put pretty enough curtains on the windows and there was only a little built up dust along the edges of the floor. A pair of singlesticks had been thrown carelessly onto the narrow daybed, which was already mountainous with laundry, Roman tomes and octaves of poems and plays. Half the counterpane trailed on the floor and several half-drunk cups of tea gathered on sideboard and sea chest like girls at a party. Byng had thoroughly installed himself here.

My captain turned to me and beamed, his brown eyes glittering as the setting sun washed over him.

"What excellent timing you have; Mrs Battersea will have tea ready any moment now, and you must dine with me and we shall discuss my letter to Napier. Oh, do not look so perturbed," he laughed, having evidently seen some of my agitated state in my eyes, "all things good, I assure you."

Yes, I needed no assurance of it. I knew Byng would write only too enthusiastically of my time in his service, and it was here wherein lay the entirety of my problem. Had I never met this man I would not know myself to be one to dislike inner turmoil, for I don't make a habit of engaging in it. It was Byng who never knew when to leave well enough alone and when to leave an enemy an enemy without towing him into friendship. It had always been my curse to resent him near as much as love him.

"Please, take a seat."

I cast an eye about the room and found no available surface.

"...where, sir?" I jabbed.

"Oh! Well, you may throw down Cicero," Byng said, pronouncing the name with his usual hard 'c', "Lord knows he deserves it! Ha!"

I made a smile at his words, although not understanding the reference and not letting it bother me. He might have pressed Voltaire onto me, and Swift and Gay, but i draw the line at Romans. I took Cicero in my hands and set his papery corpse on a half-unrolled housewife; I had to restrain myself as always from following behind him and tidying up, lest I prove the jabs of my own wifeliness true and lose what has remained of my Machiavellian reputation. Although I suppose Byng had an excuse this time - at the thought, my eyes flickered guiltily to his half-wooden hand. It was clear that despite his period in the naval hospital, my captain was still struggling to change from his sinistral upbringing.

Still, it was not to critique his slovenliness that I had come to his room.

"Sir," I started, seating myself on the little space I had cleared of the footstool, "there was something....something I wanted to discuss."

"Please, you know I will always bend my ear to you, Fid," he said, before peering closer at me, "Why, your face-! Is it awful news?"

"No, I- that is-. Ah!" I did not want to look at his concerned expression. All the words had dried up in my mouth as soon as attempting to speak them; how ridiculous, to waste away the night with harrowed rehearsal only to find myself fish-jawed when it came to the opening performance. Me! He whom trouble followed in consequence of caustic wit, struck suddenly dumb!

And the longer I remained silent, the deeper the furrow between Byng's brows got.

"Is it...money?" He near whispered the last, afraid of offending some invisible etiquette teacher by mentioning finances so crudely.

I shook my head, my auburn hair flying about.

"Then I am at a loss," Byng declared, placing one hand on his hip, the other dangling unnaturally - his new asymmetry made that noxious cauldron of guilt and shame roil in my stomach, "but it cannot be as dreadful as you are putting on. Tell me all about it and we shall have the matter sorted by coffee, my friend."

"I have not been your friend," I blurted, clumsily.

There was a long pause, in which the clatter and shouting outside the boardhouse seemed to swell like a choir to fill it. For a moment I could not fathom how the entirety of my disclose was not obvious to him within those six words, forgetting that they had only consumed my reality by the throes of my own inner repetition. No, that my confession was still a secret was obvious, for instead of outraged, Byng looked only confused, and scratched at his moustache. The fine golden hairs that had escaped his pomade caught the low sun and blazed like beaten gold - my fancy saw him in that moment like the Archangel Michael with myself as always, cast as the devil himself.

"If you are still dwelling on my words about being abandoned on the hospital, I beg you to forget them. They were a bad joke and I ought to have known you would take them to heart. I understand how busy you have been," he said kindly.

I did not want his kindness. I had not wanted it at the beginning of our aquaintance and I did not want it now, when I must expose myself to him entirely. It would have suited me better if he was dismissive or pompous or selfish, but then, had he been any of those things, I would never have found myself in the position I was in.

Maybe it made it easier in the end, as his kindess irritated me and there is nothing better for loosening the tongue than irrational stress.

"We hoped you would die," I snapped, and with those savage words it was as though a damn, long rotten and straining over the years, broke within me and out came spilling a torrent of filthy, diseased water, "You often said our friendship began on the Courland expedition. It is true, I did recommend you for the negotiations to Gainsford, but not because I thought you would do well at it."

When Byng said nothing, I continued, "I don't know if you were even aware of my dislike of you. I hated all things you represented - priviledge, education, connexions. You had the impertience to be friendly and humble and forgiving and there was little I could not find a way to despise about you. Yes, I sent you off to the Governor and greatly you thanked me for that boon afterwards, but with sincerity I had done it with the presumtion that you would not come back."

It hurt to say these things to the man I now loved, but it was necessary. It was necessary - I had repeated as much to my pillow in the dark of the night - for him to know the depths of my depravity before he risked his reputation by recommending me to the Admiral on false understandings.

I was glad that it hurt.

When I risked a glance at him, Byng had gone very still and very pale. His good arm had dropped to his side.

"I see," he said woodenly. To hear his normally bonny voice so expressionless was near as debilitating as the sight of him clutching his mangled hand had been. "I...I suppose there have been queerer starts to friendships. It will be a funny thing to tell people at dinner parties, certainly." His chuckle sounded forced, "but it has been years-"

"That was not the end of it," I interrupted him. I had to dispell him of his good opinion of me, for my own honour as much as his.

"Oh?" Came the faint, reluctant question.

"Yes," I said. There was a heat building in me, like a fever reaching its climax and I believe in the moment it sent me to the very edge of madness, "I resented you your success - we all did, but I the most, for your fortune was my own doing and the praise of one so far my junior in rank but superior in society galled me to the extreme. For my own benefit, I pretended at friendship. I took your affection and betrayed it for years. Had it not been for my own sense of duty towards my superiors - I couldnt imagine where we would be now."

"You cannot be serious," Byng protested, and now he too sounded hot, "you are confused, Fidious. You've saved my life, twice over, three times if you would allow me to count Chatham!"

"My duty, as I said, sir."

"Then-, then you took me into your care when I was attacked," he pointed out triumphantly.

The memory of that winter night and Byng's staggering form bearing me dazedly to the pavement, blood running down his face, shot through my mind. A reminiscent shiver ran down my spine.

"You might have died," I pointed out, determined not to allow him to paint me as any kind of samaritan, "I may have betrayed your good opinion but I would not have allowed any man of woman to just pass in the street."

"You are making this very difficult, you know," Byng said crossly and I felt a familiar pang of satisfaction in making myself disagreeable, "there was no danger of me dying from the attention of the Duchess of Whitby, though. There was no need for your intervention but your rescue of me from matrimony when I asked it of you."

He seemed very assured of his victory there, but the shame threated to swallow me again at the reminder.

"I was glad to 'rescue' you; it was gratifying to me to deprive you of a greater fortune and a title in one fell swoop."

Byng's fine face fell.

"Tell me this is a joke," he said eventually. My words had begun to penetrate his rosy view of the world. I could feel my heart crack in tandem with his.

"I cannot," I replied, my voice wavering like a snotty's.

"I have asked you for counsel, and you have given it. I have told you my fears, and you have reassured me. I asked you to share in my joys, and you did."

"For my own benefit, sir." I swallowed the lump in my throat, "for my own advancement."

"...I introduced you to my sister."

"Yes," i whispered.

The dam had run dry. There were no more words. I had done what i had set out to; to destroy the bridge Byng had built between us over the years. As I watched, I saw the flesh fingers of his hands curl into fists, and his whole body strike up rigid. It was only those wooden fingers that sat slack and I did not miss the irony that in that moment, the only part of my captain's body not set against me was that which he had sacrificed to save my life. It was in that gory, mutilating moment that my love for him had flowered, belatedly, selfishly, only then had my eyes opened. How could I have visited him in recovery knowing, feeling now thoroughly, all those years I had plotted against him or accepted his friendship with ill feeling?

"I had been warned about you," Byng said quietly, face like procelain. "Lieutenants, midshipmen, seamen - even those Buffs you played the tables with; all seemed to have black words to say about you. But I dismissed them. Every one; I even got a little irate at some of them. My own honour felt besmirched that these people would cast aspersions on my closest friend in the world."

Each blow struck me like a sabre. Good. It was good that he make me bleed.

"Sir-" I began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door and the impertinent entry of a white-capped maid.

She bobbed a curtesy.

"Mrs Battersea says to tell you tea's ready for you, sir - and to say there's enough for two if your friend is staying."

Byng did not take his eyes off of me.

"No. This man was just leaving."

Surely there was an ocean of blood lapping at my knees by now. It was good, and it was right, but like a drowning man taking one last breath before going under, it was instinct that moved my lips without knowing what my next words would be.

"Please-"

"I think, Mr Jones, that you have thoroughly obliterated your right to say 'please' to me, don't you?"

My last breath of air went out. Here were the consequences of my actions - Byng's blithe counternance one of stony betrayal, my commendation to the Admiral no doubt would find itself fuelling the fireplace, the hesitant understanding between myself and Lady Babington crumpling with the news of what I had done to her brother. Obliterated indeed.

"Then I will take my leave," I said. My words seemed to come from very far away to my own ears.

"Good day, sir," Byng dismissed me curtly, turning his back on me, halo fading with the approaching dusk.

"Good day."

And, with the maid looking between us askance, I left.

When later I received a summons from Napier concerning a glowing letter of commendation from his protege, I could never have felt worse.

[munyequitos]

i wish so bad that 4kids got to dub through skypiea. it would've been awesome. the random tarzan noises as a running bit is already a 4kids level joke. Come On.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Oh and aren't they also gonna charge like 50 USD for that book too? Yeesh

I haven't seen the price range, but yeah I don't know. I mean, I'm sure the artbook part will be super cool! I'm actually curious of what it may reveal about the game's development, this part is interesting to me. But yeah, they *really* could have done without the Timeline shenanigans. People would have bought the book without that incentive.