#What is this sorcery

[rkmoon]

Me: *spends two days in Tumblr*

Tumblr: I think... this user is aroace. Let's give them aroace content

Me: thank you but... how did you know that???

[hyog-blog]

Can we just talk a little about this unholy unity of Li Lun and Zhuo Yichen? Just look at him :D Why does he look so hot)) And those bare arms, in a show where everyone is so deliberately clothed in multi-layers (apart from demons who are veeeery bad, hence, they can show their sexiness as much as they want).

Anyway, that's it, that's all I have to say XD

And while we're on this bad-demons-look-so-good topic, let's throw in a few of them sizzling hot baddies to the mix. Because no one pulls the bad demon look quite like Zhao Yuanzhou's Inner Demon :3

And I enjoyed the whole dark!Wen Xiao sequence a little too much :D

[accio-victuuri]

love in a parallel universe ❤️🤍 // source

[howling-medic]

All Duty Requires Purpose

Summary: Boromir has far better places to be than a meeting hall and far better things to do than listen to inane debate

A/N: @rivendell-poet talked about Boromir cuddling the other day, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it. Now this exists.

Warnings: Nothing at all...for literally the second time ever I think

Word Count: 1.6K

Rating: Gen

Pairings: Boromir x Reader

All Duty Requires Purpose

Meetings drained soldiers more than any battle ever could. Trading words, remaining still, when there was work to be done chafed against their nature. Today’s meetings dragged on into the night. Boromir sent for food because quarterly reports necessitated resolutions before anyone exited the meeting hall. His ornate, and well cushioned, oak chair with its finely carved wings had never caused his back to ache this much before, but he also had never sat in it this long. His mind began to wander to his wingback couch in your quarters where you undoubtedly were sitting. Without fail he could count on finding you tucked into one corner with your feet tucked under you and a book in your hand. Perhaps by now it had fallen from your grasp, and your arms were pillowing your head. 

He cleared his throat and dragged his focus back to the meeting. “We simply cannot afford to purchase fifty more horses! Not war horses anyways, and there’s no war to justify such an expense even if we could afford it!” Boromir reached the end of his patience. The Minister of War and Minister of Finance stood no chance of coming to any agreement.

“Gentlemen!” The room fell silent. “I believe I may have a solution to settle this, so we can all go home. We have no urgent need for war ready horses, as has been noted several times; however, we have soldiers who need cavalry training.” Neither minister looked pleased at Boromir’s interruption, nor at the opening of Boromir’s proposal. It mattered little. As Steward, he passed the reports and proposals for Aragorn to finalize, not the ministers. “What if we train our new recruits on the horses we currently possess? Not each man needs his own mount in a time of peace. We can begin negotiations with Rohan to establish an agreement for the purchase of horses with each breeding season. We can slowly grow our string of war horses at a lower cost than purchasing fully trained horses while also strengthening our ties with Rohan.” He fixed the two squabbling ministers with an icy gaze. “Do any take issue with this proposal?”

The room fell silent. Tension rippled through the assembled councillors,each waiting to see if the others would challenge Boromir. When none did, whether because they had no objections or they refused to be the first to try, Boromir rose. “Excellent. On that note, let us each retire. A draft of the Quarterly Report will arrive by sundown tomorrow all else remaining equal. As per usual, should you take issue with the notes pertaining to your position, send word to me.” The scraping of chairs and hushed murmurs interrupted by the groans of men idle too long stretching aching joints filled the room. Boromir took a moment to collect his thoughts while he sorted through his notes and tucked them into his leather folio. His hand itched to pull out a fresh scrap of parchment out and scribble down a list of all he needed to do before he could finally truly retire for the night. The day’s scribe handed him the veritable stack of the meeting minutes. Despite inwardly groaning at all the information he needed to review, he thanked the man - Damril? He really ought to remember, but it ranked low in priority compared to all the information vying for his limited attention tonight.

At least two advisors called out to him, but Boromir pretended not to hear, opting to make a beeline to the Steward’s House. He truly intended to go directly to his study and begin assembling a complete set of notes on the day’s meeting, if not a rough draft of the Quarterly Report itself, for Aragorn. Truly, that was his intent. The sound of a crackling fire and soft snores coming from the parlor stopped him in his tracks. With a sigh, he set the folio full of notes on a side table in the hall, stepped out of his boots, and laid his cloak on top of the folio.

Even with his boots off, the sound of his footfalls roused you. Boromir had never mastered the art of moving silently like Faramir had. Even Aragorn, two inches taller, could move more quietly than he could. You lifted your head nearly imperceptiblty. He thought you called his name in a questioning greeting, but all that was even vaguely intelligible was “Mir?” and even that was muffled by the pillow. You were just where he expected to find you, however. Your face was pressed into a pillow, and you had managed to curl yourself into as tight a ball as possible pressed to the far end of the couch. Your book lay open on the floor. Apparently you had fallen asleep before you had the chance to properly set it aside. 

The folio drew his gaze one last time, but there was no folio to see. Just his cloak. Boromir sat beside you on the couch and draped one arm lazily over the backrest. “I’m home.” The words washed over you and brought as much warmth as the blanket he pulled up over your shoulders. “I apologize for working this late,” he began, but a shake of your head cuts him off.

“You are forgiven, my love.” The words are mumbled and just as muffled by the pillow as your greeting. You opened your eyes, and found Boromir smiling down at you. His arm no longer rested upon the back of the couch. It migrated down to wrap around your shoulders. You couldn’t pinpoint when he moved it, though. Possibly when he covered you with the blanket. “Aragorn came to collect the notes from you - said he would write up the draft himself. He was…displeased… you let the meeting drag on into the night. He threatened to go break up the meeting himself, but I told him you would die of apoplexy if you should fail to reach reach resolutions on every matter to be included in this quarter’s report. I think he left a note somewhere, but I cannot remember where. My book was good, and I was tired.” You gestured vaguely away from where you sat.  

Boromir laughed. A full and rich sound that drew you to him like a moth to a flame. You shifted to rest your head on his arm. “Of course he did.That is horribly like him, I’m afraid. His note, however, can wait until later. Right now, I am quite content to stay where I am at.”

“It is terribly like him, and it would have been right for him to do it - would you not have worried yourself sick about all that was left undone.” His arm wrapped further around you, drawing you further into his hold. 

“I may have welcomed the intervention this time. That infernal new Minister of War may well drive me out of my mind. Did you know he wants us to buy fifty, fifty, fully trained war horses? The Minister of Finance - you remember Celebdîr? - nearly lost his mind. Poor man; I truly would not have blamed him for throttling him. The two of them bickered for ages. I eventually had to cut them off. I think I have a solution that will leave them both acceptably mollified.” Boromir broke off midway through his building rant and let out a deep breath. “That’s more than enough work. It took all of the evening; I will not let it take any more of our time.” 

You let out a small hum of acknowledgement. “You know I will always listen to you talk about work, but I agree it has occupied more than enough of your day - and night.” Boromir watched as you stretched and rolled so you could face him in full, which left you pressed into his chest. His arms tightened around you; his face pressed into your neck.

“Truly more than enough. By the time I cut those two off, More of my mind was back here with you than in that room.” His breath ruffled your hair, which tickled his nose. Your scent enveloped him, and the last of the day’s stress gave way. He could feel more than hear your answering giggle. 

When you tucked yourself fully into his hold, your position became a mirror image of when he lay his cloak over his folio - but with all your weight against him. You let out a contented sigh, he chuckled and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, savoring the warmth of you against him. Boromir pulled you tighter against him and settled in to keep you right here in his arms for as long as you wanted to stay before the fire. 

Whenever anyone asked him about the long hours he keeps, the years he had given to this city and this realm, the blood, the sweat, the tears, he would answer it was his duty. It was undoubtedly that, but that was far from the full truth. Duty bound him to his service, yes, but this right here - holding you in his arms - gave that duty purpose. He savored every single second. It was only when he began to struggle to keep his eyes open, that he conceded defeat and carried you to bed.

The folio stayed beneath the cloak until the morning light broke through the bedroom window. Then he slipped out of bed, careful to not disturb you, and retrieved the packet of pages and his writing box. Just as he has done on many mornings, settles in with his work and pulls you back to his side to steal a few more minutes of peace before he has to surrender himself to the day ahead.

A/N: A writing box is basically a lap desk. I was obsessed with the mental image of Boromir working away while you were still snuggled into his side. A quick Google search said that apparently lap desks in various forms have existed since about the 1600s, so I decided that was close enough. Fun facts courtesy of Hannah.

[call-me-kitty]

POV the sideblog you made in October is more popular than your main blog you made in 2021

[avi-wings]

god how do i watch the gayest shit ever and the shit that i'm obsessed with is the straight one 😭

[hueyiz]

ONG WAHTT

WHAT THE @lilaquette FOLLOWED NE AAAA

HELPP WHATT IM CRYING

[speedyshark95]

Liam just straight up stole my hair :(

[sharkiiv]

@blue_worm_from_space what have you done to me you autistic warlock why is there a bunch of transformers propaganda on my dash i shall execute you for infecting me with your fnaf lore equivalent hyperfixations

[starpains]

Ewan McGregor is just a 50+yo dude who stands awkwardly and we all just fall over ourselves thirsting for him.

How does he do it.

[hyog-blog]

Fangs of Fortune: the Ultimate Plot Twist

We may say whatever we want about the plot, but this one thing is actually so bizarrely and beautifully made, and I just realized it - like everything that happened in the show literally started with one petty demonic woman who has fallen in love with a human man who didn't reciprocate her feelings.

It all began with Princess Long Yu - both Zhao Yuanzhou's downfall (and subsequently Zhuo Yichen's tragedy) and Wen Xiao's Goddess arc.

She was the one who killed Wen Xiao's father (yes, by accident, we can blame the fate all we want but that did start with her), leading to Bai Ze Goddess finding Wen Xiao and later mentoring her to become the next one.

Princess Long Yu was also the one who at least helped turn Wen Zong Yu into the monster he later became. The man must have had that seed of shittiness in him to go all supervillain on the whole demonic kind, but still, it all started with the Princess killing off his pregnant wife (ehics, morality, kindness, humanity? not her cup of tea). If she hadn't fallen in love with Wen Zong Yu, there's a chance he wouldn't have turned out like that.

And that means - no burning wood, no Zhu Yan getting it into his body, no hurting/killing Li Lun, and then losing it on the blood moon. Like the whole arc of Zhao Yuanzhou's deathwish also started with that one Princess doing what she did D:

And then later they both, Zhao Yuanzhou and Wen Xiao come to her, the main source that kickstarted each of their fates and snowballed them into becoming what each of them turned out to be D: And they ask her for her scale and she gives it to them knowing that it would be her death? As an actual attempt to somehow redeem herself? Because that one cruel choice she made, that one murder affected EVERYONE in the series.

This is such a powerful move plot-wise, actually, and it ties everything so beautifully that I have to give Mr. Guo a thousand more kudos for this show, like seriously, the plot was so good (well, for me, it was good for me :D I won't see them plot holes even if I fall right into them XD).

[upwards-descent]

Ough

[insomniiuh]

squid’s furry art saga continues

[gealach-edits]

Sophie Joline von Felten, “Romeo and Juliet” LP || JGP Ljubljana 2024

[elceeu2morrow]

Jingle Ball Dallas, 12.1.15 // FITFWT Mexico City, 6.1.24 [undercoverfanny]

[soupblessings]