#fic: as the world caves in

[daughter-of-melpomene]

𝐑𝐄-𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐄𝐋𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍

❝ Eli had almost always been obsessed with killers. From a very young age - most would say too young to be interested in a subject so morbid - Eli had watched as many serial killer documentaries and read as many books by journalists and family members of the killers as he could get his hands on, until he knew almost everything there was to know about American serial killers. He recite all the details of John Wayne Gacy's case from memory, debate about Jack the Ripper theories for hours, and once the Aileen Wuornos movie came out, he watched it so many times he was able to repeat it almost word for word (because, he would always say, woman killers deserved recognition too).

Of course, none of this was to say that Eli was disturbed, or that he had the potential to be a killer himself. Perhaps he was disturbed, but coming from a home with an emotionally abusive mother and a father who loved him but had never actually had the guts to take his son out of their awful situation, Eli would've said he was no more disturbed than anyone else who'd come from a similar home. No, while he might have been intrigued by the stories of serial killers and the investigations into them, he was always horrified and disgusted by the killings he read about, and besides, it had always been the police investigations that had fascinated him most. He loved reading about the bold police detectives who searched tirelessly for clues to solve the murders and brought the killers to justice, and as a hurting young boy reading these books under his covers at night, he longed to one day be one of those detectives with the power to put bad guys away where they belonged.

It was no surprise to anyone who knew him, then, when Eli had started working for the FBI as an adult. Originally taking a job with the Counterterrorism Division, Eli found himself not satisfied with the position, his childhood dreams of hunting down serial killers constantly replaying in his head. So, after six years with the Bureau, Eli applies to be reassigned to the Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU, and finally makes his morbid youthful fantasies come true by being assigned to Aaron Hotchner's team of profilers.

Eli, who's always been skilled at making friends, is quick to establish himself as a member of the chaotic little family that is this team. But he's also quickly intrigued by Spencer Reid, a socially awkward genius with unfairly nice hair.

Eli Logan had no intentions of finding a romantic partner when he first lobbied to be assigned to the BAU... but maybe, in the midst of all this murder and chaos and boring post-case paperwork, that might just be what happens anyway. ❞

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginnystilinski-reblogs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

[anauro]

sobbing, dying, screaming, suffering after yaz's heartbreak of a fic.

After care is reading dass so i can feel better again.

You know things are bad when dass becomes the fluffy comfort read… 🥺

That fic was awful in the best way possible, I feel ya, friend 💔💔

[laurrelise]

sobbing while listening to this song on repeat and thinking about five and delores

like this is not a joke tears have been streaming down my face for 20 minutes. someone save me i’m losing my mind

[chrisrin]

🎶 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘴 🎶

[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?

[branches-of-time]

looks at images of Mondstadt and tears well up in my eyes

[youareunbearable]

I might not do anything with this BUT I've been thinking about the Shadow of Mordor games again and how FUN would it be if Sauron did that but instead of bringing back Celebrimbor he uses his necromancy magic to bring back Maedhros

An imposingly tall figure, all done up in Sauron's spikey black armor, instead of his mace there is a wicked black blade where a right hand should be. He roams at the front of the Nazgul, blade at the ready as the other holds the reigns to a monstrous horse

People are terrified, thinking that Sauron himself is roaming the wilds, he stalks the Fellowship, nothing seems to stop him only delay him. Gandalf isn't sure its Sauron himself, but something about him under all that twisted and dark and evil song sings pure, like a dull flicker of white flame, like a weak candle.

When Boromir dies, that figure is with the orcs, it isnt the one to slay Boromir, but turns away and it seems to know where the ring is. The orcs are too focused on Merry and Pipin to follow the Figure, but he walks off. He stands on the shores as Frodo and Sam shiver in the Swan boat, but it does nothing but watch them as they sail off. It makes no motion to follow them or attack their small boat, just watch transfixed. Sam makes a comment that it looks like the Figure's armor makes it almost like it has a metal collar around its neck and cuffs on its wrists

During the battle of Helm's Deep, that Figure is back again, silently leading the siege. At one point, an Elven arrow hits the Figure's helm, knocking it a little loose and from under the helm tumbles a single red lock of hair. Its so red that almost looks like a smoldering flame. Haldir, who lives with the survivors of Doriath, sees that red hair, that tall stature, the handless right wrist and pales. While he wasn't there to witness the destruction of Doriath, he has heard the tales, he knows about the red haired monster that haunts the memories of the Sindar, and he knows what that Figure is capable of. Luckily, that Figure manages to catch a glimpse of Aragorn, and Freezes once again, a single stone that cuts through the rushing current of orcs all around him. Haldir doesn't see it again, but then again, Haldir doesn't see much of anything again.

(The Figure sees Gandalf on the hill, arriving with the dawn and reinforcments and it grieves, something in it breaks all over again but the magic puppeting its moves doesn't allow it to dwell. The helm is readjusted and the hair is tucked away and the Figure turns and leaves the battlefield. Its being summonded somewhere else.)

The war rages on, the Witch King is dead, but so is King Theoden. The Figure is trapped, the right wrist is pinned under the corpse of an oliphant and Elrond's sons watch as the Figure struggles before lying still. It's clearly not dead, but realizing it's trapped.

Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli join the twins. Gimli offers to thrust his axe in its chest, Legolas insists that he can shoot through its eye from a safer distance. Aragorn, who heard Haldir's frantic pleas during his final moments, just observes the Figure.

He notices the strange collar, how it clearly has cuffs on its wrist and feet, like it used to be shackled and chained.

"Can you speak?" He asks it.

The Figure does nothing but turn its helm towards Aragorn. They stare at each other for a few tense moments.

One of the twins, Aragorn still isn't fully sure which one, approches the Figure slowly. The Figure's helm is still directed at Aragorn.

"It feels familiar." The one twin whispers, voice raw from exertion. "It has a fea, it feels warm."

"Like uncle Erestor. Or Lindir." The other twin agrees.

The Figure turns its helm towards the twins at the mention of Erestor. The twin closest to the Figure, quick as an adder, jabs a polearm at the Figure's helm.

It snaps back, the helm tumbling off the Figure's head and those smoldering red locks fan out around the head, obscuring the face from view.

Even without seeing the face it's clearly an Elf. An abused one at that if one just looks at the notches missing from it's pointed ears. The polearm is back, nudging under where a chin should be to lift the face.

First, all that is seen is scars. So many that pull the once handsome face, for even under all its marring one can tell from the bone structure that this was a face that could launch a thousand ships, into a grotesque manner. But it is the eyes, the eyes that makes everyone suck in a breath.

These eyes glow, they glow with power, with light never been seen before, or well, haven't been seen in Ages. These grey eyes glow with the reflected light of the Two Trees, long since felled.

"Oh, Maitimo," Gandalf, who had wandered up the the group, sighed with tremendous sorrow. "What has become of you?"

Maitimo, or Maedhros as those in the Third Age know him as, tries to speak. His lips move, which brings attention to the fact that they are loosely sewn together with a black cord that seems to pull and ooze blood, never letting the wounds heal. His voice croaks, dry with misuse, but he manages a sound, a breath, perphaps even a word. Each syllable like a dying wheeze. He repeats the sound, again and again, almost becoming frantic with his wheezing chants, blood spilling down his chin from the threads, until it's understandable.

"Necromancer."

[red-riding-wood]

As The World Caves In

Moodboard by forgottonpeakywriter

Wrote this on a bit of a whim because I was inspired by this song. A modern AU in which the reader and Tommy are in the British infantry in a fictional war. It's nothing but angst, folks. Maybe a bit of fluff?

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F Reader

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

WARNINGS: war violence/themes, minor blood, romantic relationship, language

WC: 1454

“That’s it?” John’s tone was far from steady now as he breached the silence that hung, poignant, in the air between the members of your squad after the command had come over the radio.

A piercing blue gaze met yours, and Tommy nodded, no less in a state of shock than any of you. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated. You could feel the pain in that gaze as he tore it from yours to look to each of his soldiers. “Twenty fucking minutes. Make them count.”

You loosed your headset, and switched it off, not wanting to hear the frantic radio traffic.

Twenty minutes.

You’d spent more time thinking up silly fantasies about being back home, about living back in domesticity, about sharing a peaceful life with Tommy. A life that now, you would never have.

Before you could meet his gaze again, you peeled yourself from the group and disappeared between a couple of the caved-in buildings, chest heaving with a quickening breath and your heart slamming against a now seemingly-delicate ribcage. You couldn’t handle the quiver in John’s tone, the unusual silence of Arthur, the blue eyes that used to warm the emptiness in your chest but now wove your stomach into knots and chilled your flesh colder than the brisk December air.

You barely heard your name called past the hot roar of blood in your ears, and you ducked into an opening in the crumbled brick of one of the building’s walls, M4 clutched to your chest beneath trembling fingers.

The building did little to counter the cold; its windows were shattered from gunfire and its walls were cut like Swiss cheese from the bombs that had landed not even a week ago.

Twenty fucking minutes, you thought.

You had spent more time taking lives. Spent more time destroying these very buildings to combat enemy forces.

At last, you found the closest thing to a sanctuary; the walls had held out in this building, and your eyes caught on the bright red of a vintage record player, nestled in its own little haven between a kitchen island and a desk with nothing but a few scattered pencils and a hairbrush.

Make them count, he’d said.

You stopped as an idea struck you, and you let your rifle fall to the floor, the weight leaving the strap around your shoulder as if it had been a chain tethering you to this wretched place.

And you decided that, if only for those twenty minutes, that you would have the life you dreamt of.

---

Tommy couldn’t remember what his last words had been to Arthur and John, and he couldn’t help but keep glancing at his watch as he wound his way through the abandoned buildings in search of you. You hadn’t been answering your radio, but he refused to shed it until the faint sound of an old song began to play through the drywall, and he paused, headset falling from his ears and his panted breaths stilling.

He called your name, shouted it from lungs aching from the biting air of winter and a throat bitter with the faint tinge of bile. A few furnishings were loudly shoved to the side as he muscled his way through a door that had been blocked off, and clambered over them through a narrow hall.

He held his watch up. Four minutes.

The music was coming from another doorway, shut to the dark hall; daylight spilled from beneath the frame, and the tinny notes of a record player began to form a cohesive song now, a song that he recognised as the first one he had ever danced to with you. When he inhaled, threads of juniper and smoke met his lungs.

As he stepped past the threshold into the barren kitchen, his aquamarine gaze snapped to you and the bright yellow dress that hung a little too loose around your frame to be yours, at the hair you’d let fall over your shoulders as if you were not a soldier but a girl, at the eyes that stared back at him as if you’d been waiting for him for a century.

“What is this?” he demanded, and you swallowed, fighting back a tear as you stepped forward.

Your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall as it ticked, and you reached a hand out to the sergeant. “Come here,” you said, your voice quiet and broken. You couldn’t say much more past the knot in your throat.

Something about his countenance softened around sharp features, and he dropped his headset to the floor alongside your rifle.

A calloused but warm hand met yours, sending a pleasant shiver through your body. The cold air bit at your bare limbs, but you pulled him close, the scent of him now inhaled past the juniper of the burning candles you’d set along the dining table.

A hot breath fanned across your lashes as his forehead tipped to yours, and you reached a hand to the bone of a hollowed cheek, to the dark, chestnut locks of hair that had grown out shaggy from years of service. And his eyes bore into yours as the world became blurry with your tears.

“There were still some things around,” you breathed, your breaths becoming one and your head growing light. “I found this dress in one of the closets. It was the only one there was.”

A smile pulled at his lips, and he chuffed out a laugh. “I hate yellow,” he said.

“I know.” You smiled sadly, trying not to glance at the clock in your peripheral, trying to keep your gaze locked in his as he swept the tears from your eyes. You studied the way his hair fell across his forehead when his gaze left yours to sweep across the dress once more. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, and chapped lips brushed yours, your heart still slamming against your ribcage.

The clock ticked again, and your breath came shattered against the face you cupped in your hand. His fingers came up along your back, thumb moving back in forth in a lulling motion.

“In the bleak midwinter…” he breathed.

You blinked another onslaught of tears from your eyes, your lashes sticking together in the frigid air.

It was difficult to remind yourself, in this moment of pain that shot through your chest too viciously to not be real, that you had died already, that all of this was an afterlife, that none of this really belonged to you.

But you mirrored his words, your voice breaking.

The two of you barely stole a kiss before the air was ripped from your lungs, and you staggered falling against the table; his hand cupped your hip, dirtied fingernails digging into the fabric of your dress in an attempt to stabilize you.

Pressure erupted in your skull, and you couldn’t hear the music past the roar of bricks falling around you and the ringing of the shockwave. Caught in a swirl of smoke and debris, bits of drywall landed across Tommy’s hair, and shards of glass bit into your side as the two of you clung to one another on shaking legs and gasped for air. Blood ran in a line from his ear down the edge of his jaw, your fingertips growing sticky. Fear like nothing you’d ever seen glimmered in the blues of his eyes, eating at a heart that ached with yearning and tragedy.

The clock was gone now, the candles snuffed out in the cloud of ash that pervaded your burning lungs. Firelight gleamed against the side of Tommy’s face as a gout of flame engulfed your vision, and you uttered his name as if it were the only thing that could save you, but no sound came past the chaos around you.

A thumb ran up and down along your neck soothingly, and he said something back to you, but you furrowed your brow, looking to his lips to try and read what he said.

Keep your eyes on me.

The last of your breath was expelled from your lungs in a tremulous cough, and your fingers tugged at the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to bring him closer despite the searing heat that whelmed you.

The pencils and the record player struck you, but you kept your eyes glued to the twin blues that stared desperately back at you as if you were the only thing that could’ve saved him.

And before the flames could swallow you and the world could fully cave in around the darkening edges of your vision, his screaming soul was the last thing you saw in those piercing blues, reaching for yours in the inevitable darkness.  

---

MASTERLIST • REQUEST

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed to any of my taglists and notified of new works!

Tag list: @eclecticwildflowers @emotionalcadaver @evita-shelby @minaethrym

[daughter-of-melpomene]

💌 + eli logan!

YAYYY, AN ASK FOR MY BOY ELI!! Thank you so much!! <3

Eli/Spencer (the baby boys of all time).

JJ/Emily (my moms).

Penelope/Derek (because while I recognize the importance of male/female platonic relationships in media… I just love them, okay??).

Hotch/Rossi (they’re the team dads, they have to get married).

send me 💌 + an oc/fic and i’ll tell you all the endgame ships in the fic!!

[charkoal-chalc]

I think. I think abigail and krobus should be roommates.

[popagan]

I need a Shizaya fanfiction where the world is ending in a few days and they both die at the end. Would love any recommendations that ends with bloodshed and absolute gut-wrenching grief.

[veliseraptor]

Drift | Kinnporsche

Summary:

Some of Vegas's college friends who know almost nothing about his real life come to visit. The kidnapping attempt actually makes some things easier. For Pete. For Vegas, not so much.

Notes:

This was going to be one thing and then turned into another thing and then turned into another thing while I was writing it, and if it weren't for the insistence of my very persistent beta @ameliarating this probably never would have seen the light of day. And since she said she wanted to hear it more: you were right.

[the-casbah-way]

FINALLY finished my outline for prodigal son it’s going to end up way longer than i planned </3

[reineyday]

just watched bnha world heroes mission and wow they really packed a whole bunch of my favourite tropes into rody soul huh

[chelleinyy]

Two Promises, One Fulfilled-2

CHAPTER 2

Caught by the hand of justice, the muggers would soon face their reckoning in court. However, amidst the impending trial, an inexplicable force had drawn him here. Justin found himself seated not at the head of the aisle or by the pulpit, but among the gathering of mourners as Abigail's father delivered a eulogy.

"She was truly remarkable, a radiant presence..."

Alongside him, Abigail's mother held a handkerchief against her face, stifling her silent sobs. Justin's pats on her back, though a gesture of solace, was something he could not do for himself. His gaze remained locked on a photograph of Abigail, resplendent in white, surrounded by a wreath. Slowly, his eyes wandered to the casket.

A horrible feeling came to his chest whenever he looked at that coffin. It always did. He had rushed to Sinner’s End after Arthur and Bontemps announced her death, only to find the scene being cleaned up by the police. In disbelief, he had witnessed the police cleaning up the remnants of the incident, traces of blood staining the surroundings. It had been a mere matter of days since their wedding had been abruptly called off.

“Oh, Abigail…my sweet girl…” sobbed her mother. Justin avoided looking at her too. She was gone, Abigail was gone…but it felt impossible. It was only two days before their wedding, and she had been fitted into her gown according to the details shared by Walter.

Once more, his gaze settled on the casket, his vision blurred by the onset of tears. The familiar heat that welled in his eyes just by looking at the coffin or the cleaned wedding dress that now sits in her home, mingled with a sinking sensation in his chest—a feeling of profound loss and helplessness.

His mind felt clearer, yet still so vague. Justin wasn’t sure if he preferred to think or not to think at all at the moment.

“Her mother and I will always remember her, as the child we loved, and unfortunately lost. We can only hope that wherever she may find herself now, she is freed from the pain that shadowed her final hours."

The eulogy drew to a close, and Abigail's father retreated from the front of the casket, his eyes avoiding the sight. As he passed Justin, he felt a fleeting touch on his shoulder which communicated sorrow, the unspoken release of a cry.

Justin wiped his eyes and directed his gaze to the casket once more. One by one, mourners stepped forward, adorning the casket with flowers. Justin lingered, eventually taking his turn.

"No... not this. Not like this."

In that instant, he turned away, retreating toward the fringes of the crowd. An inexpressible tightness was felt in his throat, rendering him unable to speak. The tears that he had struggled to contain now flowed freely. Though he did not openly sob, his bowed head bore the trace of glistening tears for those who looked at him closely.

The funeral gradually drew to a close, the crowd dispersing in a somber procession. Each person who passed by Justin offered their condolences.

"Please accept my deepest sympathies, Mr. Lawson."

"May you find solace. The pain of losing a loved one is immeasurable."

Then, a somber figure approached—the familiar presence of Walter. His expression mirrored the weight of the occasion. With a heartfelt embrace, Walter offered solace, though Justin's own grief left him unable to reciprocate the gesture.

“I shed tears for her last night," Walter confessed softly, his voice heavy. "Remember, Justin, I'm here whenever you need to talk. My condolences." As they parted, Justin's gaze remained affixed to the ground, his eyes damp from unshed tears.

"Thank you, Walter," his voice trembled, fragile under the weight of his emotion. With a parting touch on his back, Walter took his leave, leaving Justin alone amidst the quiet of the cemetery. The crowd had dispersed, leaving behind only Abigail's relatives clustered near the gravestone. He couldn't bring himself to witness the casket's descent into the earth—too painful a sight to bear.

With a trembling sigh, Justin approached the gravestone. His fingers brushed against the etched words, and he exhaled shakily. The inscription read:

ABIGAIL BAINES

(1876-1907)

"Forever in the hearts of her loved ones,

an enduring source of inspiration."

"Justin?"

Turning, he faced Abigail's grieving parents. Their faces bore the raw marks of their sorrow, mirrored in his own anguished expression. With a faint smile, Justin nodded respectfully.

"Mr. and Mrs. Baines," he murmured. "Please accept my deepest condolences." His gaze remained fixed on the ground, a hesitation to meet their eyes. Alexander Baines' lips formed a sympathetic smile. "Call me Alexander, my boy. Formality holds no place in times like these." Beside him, his wife's eyes held a silent understanding, her expression gentle.

"We truly are sorry," Mrs. Baines added, her voice a soft murmur. Justin shook his head. “This loss, it touches all of us," he managed to say.

The force of the situation left Justin unable to fully meet their gaze, his eyes fixated on the ground. Alexander spoke with gentle understanding, "We know your love for Abigail was deep. She held you in the same regard..."

"I am aware...”

As the three exchanged glances, Alexander withdrew a small velvet box from his pocket. With a sense of solemn purpose, he extended it to Justin, who accepted it. He opened the box, revealing two gold rings within, inscribed with the words "Mr. and Mrs. Lawson." Justin's breath caught in his throat at the sight, the gravity of the gesture leaving him stunned.

He closed the box. No, he did not want the rings. In fact, any reminder of Abigail hurt him deeply at the moment. He couldn’t even look at the photograph he had of her at his house. He held out the box to Abigail's parents, shaking his head gently. "No, please. I cannot..."

Alexander spoke, his tone gentle yet firm. "We know the depth of your devotion to our daughter. Abigail cherished your love. Please, Justin, accept these rings."

Justin's hands trembled as he held the box. The rings now seemed to bear a heavy weight. He extended the box toward Abigail's parents once more, his voice a fragile whisper, "I can't... I can't bear it."

Abigail's mother placed her hand atop the box, gently pushing it back towards Justin. "You must, Justin. Please, for Abigail's sake."

Alexander's gaze held a mixture of empathy and understanding. "Remember, son, these are not just tokens of the past, but symbols of the love that will always endure."

His voice was barely audible as he nodded. "Thank you..."

He felt the box's weight in his hands, the emotional turmoil too profound for words. What good was it to keep them if the other one will never be worn by Abigail? Another further reminder that she's gone. Nothing could be done to take her back.

With a measured breath, he finally managed to articulate the question that lingered on his lips.

"Could you kindly remind me, when is the trial scheduled for this week?"

[batrogers]

Summary:

Link did not want to be back in the Lost Woods, especially not a forest that was deeply upset about something – so upset it’d blocked and hidden the true path forward. The others thought this was normal. He wanted to scream at them that something was horribly wrong… but he couldn’t have said why. He didn’t want to think about why he knew what it should feel like at all.

Rated T for moderate violence, and implied past trauma. Featuring parental Urbosa, too.

A slight canon-divergence fic, to fix my disappointment with how the sword pull went in Age of Calamity.