#hack & slash: fury

[setzeri]

Hack and Slash Fury is the funniest game I've played in a while.

[ordosmarkzero]

Furi

[tangle-tale]

with girl power comes no responsibilty

[gamereporter]

Raw Fury divulga novo trailer de gameplay de Craftlings e anuncia novidades no The MIX Summer Game Showcase

A publisher independente sueca Raw Fury aproveitou o The MIX Summer Game Showcase para revelar um novo trailer de gameplay do aguardado Craftlings, seu próximo título de estratégia e gerenciamento de recursos. Além disso, a empresa anunciou outros jogos em desenvolvimento, entre eles o tower-survivor Monsters Are Coming! Rock & Road e o RPG hack-and-slash Regions of Ruin: Runegate. Também foi…

[chuluoyi]

✎ throughout heaven and earth

- gojo satoru x reader

a sudden mission. a curse beyond your grade. all hell breaks loose when gojo realizes that there are hidden machinations behind the incident that befalls you

genre: feral!gojo, injured!reader, hurt/comfort, exponential fluff !

note: we need a gojo who will go ballistic against the higher-ups for dragging you in their mess :) refer to this for the reader's CT, and this loosely takes place after the events in heaven's fury, and the epilogue is based on this very brilliant idea :))

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Something isn’t right.

You should’ve known it was strange when they assigned you with a sudden mission with little to no briefing. You should’ve gone through with your gut feeling and informed Satoru about it.

Because if you did... now you wouldn’t be running for your life like this, frantically dodging the hacks and slashes of this chainsaw-like cursed spirit that was evidently not a Grade 2 as what you were told.

“Ah!” you yelped as the sharp ends of its body struck your shoulder, leaving you bleeding openly. This was no small wound—it was deep enough to make you stagger.

You had to do something about this because merely avoiding wouldn’t save your life. You had to come back in one piece. You have to— for your baby and Satoru.

What if I can’t? The sheer thought made you tremble. Your baby boy was still so little and he needed you more than anyone, and Satoru...

God, you couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Not again. He couldn't handle losing someone again, not after all he had already lost.

You gripped your whip—your cursed weapon—tightly amidst your bleeding hand. You had barely enough cursed energy for a domain expansion that guaranteed a sure-hit effect. You have one shot. This was all or nothing.

But you weren’t sure if it would work, because you were on the verge of exhaustion, and this was a special grade curse. Your domain expansion was definitely not as refined as the Satoru’s, and this monster was an enemy of his class.

“Satoru...” your voice came out in a sob. You were terribly scared, and honestly you were entitled to. You weren’t even sure you would survive this at all, and all you could think now was your husband’s silly grin and how much you loved him.

And right afterwards, you saw the cursed spirit lunging at you, and with everything left that you had, you screamed—

“Domain Expansion: Transcendent Veil!”

“Gojo-sensei, p-please come back... Nee-san is...!”

Satoru was in Kyoto when he received that call from Megumi— and that moment shattered his world as he knew it.

“Megumi, what is it?”

“She w-was sent on a mission... but then it's a special grade— a-and... she... she e-exorcised it b-but—!”

He teleported without second thought to Tokyo. His mind was blank, the only sound he could hear was his own violent heartbeats, and his fists were clenched so tightly.

“The cursed spirit got her too… It made a cut on her neck.”

His most precious wife... the one person he must protect at all cost, was now possibly—

“Megumi.” He saw him sitting on the hallway of the headquarters’ hospital the with his son on his lap—you had asked him to look after your baby—and the boy looked up to him.

“Gojo-sensei...” Megumi appeared shaken, and seeing that, Satoru immediately took his child from his hands, pulling the little kid into his embrace.

“Go back home, I’ll stay here.”

In all his life, Megumi had never seen Gojo Satoru as calm as he was now. He looked fearsome, as if he was in the battlefield.

“Ichiji.” Satoru turned to the other man rigidly standing next to Megumi, causing him to stiffen up even more. He didn’t say anything further as he pat his little son’s back, and yet Ichiji knew all the same what he wanted from him.

“It’s from… the higher ups, Gojo-san.” Ichiji gulped as he said it. “Y/N-san was suddenly called in yesterday night, and she was told it was an urgent mission.”

“Who called her?”

“It was…”

When Ichiji told him the name, suddenly Satoru barked a snort, and his lips curled into a manic grin. It was a menacing sight for both Ichiji and Megumi, as he looked almost unhinged if not for his secure grip on his son.

But contrary to what they were thinking, what filled Satoru at that moment was pure, unadulterated fury. A righteous sense of being crossed—because, how fucking dare they?

Those higher ups first pressed him to execute Yuji, and when he paid them no mind… now they staged this atrocity against you, most definitely to serve as a warning to him.

“Ichiji, tell them that I’ll pay a visit tomorrow. And drive Megumi home tonight.”

He would make his point loud and clear. He would show them how wrong it was to ever test him. But…

The plan barely satisfied him. They hurt you. His heart finally lurched as he processed the fact… when he heard his baby’s soft whimper against his shoulder.

. . .

You sustained serious injuries, but finally, you were out of critical condition.

When Satoru was allowed to see you, you were still connected to many monitors and breathing machine. He brought your baby too inside, and upon clearly seeing both of them, suddenly your eyes welled up with tears.

“Hey…” his hand gripped yours reassuringly. You sniffled when the strain of your broken ribs made you almost cry out in pain, and Satoru immediately calmed you down.

“Sweets— hey, don’t cry, yeah? You did good.” He pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “You did freaking good. You’re okay now. You’re going to recover, yeah?”

You gave him a tearful little nod, feeling so grateful that you could see him again. And unbeknownst to you, seeing you like this broke his heart too.

“Mwa...” your baby, cradled in your husband’s arms, suddenly stretched his tiny hands towards you, and Satoru handed him over for you to hold.

With the little strength you possessed, you reached out to stroke his soft cheeks. Your son... the thought of how close you came to death brought another tear rolling down your cheek.

All sort of thoughts went through Satoru’s head at the sight. His wife, the mother of his son, who is proud of him for everything he does—

—and their sorry asses dared to hurt you.

Suddenly all he saw was red.

And he swore he would make it right to you. Soon.

“Ah, Satoru-kun… to what I owe the pleasure?”

“…I’ve heard that it was you who assigned that special grade mission to my wife, correct?”

“Oh, that. First of all, I must apologize for my... oversight. We were misinformed... Our scouts made a mistake while filling the files.”

Satoru was trying not to lose his composure first thing after coming here. Really.

But the knowing tone of the elderly Jujutsu Commander only fueled his rage, growing stronger the longer he stood behind this stupid paper divider.

“So it’s a mistake, huh?” he repeated in a satire manner. “Then do you know that my wife has just gotten out of her maternity leave this week?”

The man behind the divider chuckled quietly. “Satoru-kun… I know the sentiment. Of course you’ll be worried, and it did end in a rather… unfortunate incident. However, jujutsu sorcerers are bound to their duty, and your wife cannot rely too heavily on her status as a member of the Gojo clan to be excluded from—”

Fuck it. He had no patience any longer.

“Seems like I need to be a lot rougher, after all.”

Suddenly the room crackled with electricity and the Jujutsu Commander gasped at the sense of foreboding he felt. “Gojo, you can’t—!”

“Heh, but I can.” He let out the most satisfied laugh before opening his palm and chanting in a lower voice: “Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”

In a matter of seconds, the audience chamber of jujutsu headquarters turned into a pile of destruction. The commander barely made it out the deadly vacuum vortex with a shriek.

“Ah! N-no! Get a-away from me!” Satoru stared down at him coldly through his unobstructed heavenly eyes, as he pitifully tried to crawl away. He took one step towards him, stomped on his hand ruthlessly—causing the man to scream, before he got down to his level.

“N-no! Please, s-spare me...!”

“This is my first and last warning to you.” It was beyond terrifying, to see those six eyes in this close proximity. But even more dreadful was the tight chokehold on his throat—

“If you ever try to pull this idiotic stunt again on my wife, know that I can and I will snap your neck.” Satoru’s face split into a sinister grin as he tapped the man’s nape, before he crushed the bones of his hand with a crack and made him howl. “Remember that, yeah?”

. . . that day, none in jujutsu headquarters dared to spread any word about Gojo Satoru’s outrageous conduct, even when it was an attack against their own highest ranking leader.

“Satoru, you don’t have to, really—”

“Nuh, uh! I’ve promised you I’ll nurse you back to health!”

Unaware of anything and everything, you thought that your loving husband was a silly jester trying to make you feel better. On the fifth day of your stay in hospital, you were well enough to eat solid food, and Satoru insisted on spoon feeding you the fruits he cut himself.

“Good girl,” he praised with a wholly playful smile as you chewed on the watermelon. You looked at him with a mock frown, pursing your lips.

“You’re making me look like a kid.”

“You are, in fact, my second kid, so I have all rights to baby you.”

You let out a giggle, but then suddenly your throat felt like it was closing in and you coughed. Instinctively, you reached for your neck— your fingers tracing the scar there.

You still could remember the sense of paralyzing fear you felt as soon as your neck was cut. The heavy bleeding that followed, the way the world blacking out around you…

“Sweets…?” Satoru put down the plate and got a grip on your trembling figure. He gently pushed your chin up to meet his eyes. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, hmm?”

Your frantic eyes locked onto his, and your rapid breathing steadied. Your clammy hand reached out to touch his face... before you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him.

“Sweetheart…” Satoru hugged you back in return, sighing against the nape on your neck, as he planted a soft kiss there.

You tried your best not to cry but it was hard not to while remembering everything.

“I-I was so scared…”

“Mhm.”

“I-I kept thinking… w-what if I c-can’t see you… or baby again…? I… I s-still want to do a lot of… things… w-with you…”

The way you shook in his arms like a fragile leaf made something inside him burn. He was supposed to provide you with security, give you a life far removed from curses—

Having left that warning against the higher-ups wasn’t enough, he should’ve made him beg for his life more—

“Listen to me,” Satoru said as he broke the hug, the deep frown in his grave expression made you almost sob. He gently wiped your overflowing tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Stop thinking that. You’re alright. You’re going to get better. You and me—we are going to raise our son together.”

You took in each of his words fully, even as your lips quivered.

“And mark my words…” Right in this moment, you thought that your husband was most dashing as he gave you his promises—as his blue eyes glimmered under the light. “They won’t ever lay their hands on you ever again. Not while I’m here. Not ever. I already made sure of that.”

You were curious about what he did, but you chose not to press further when Satoru leaned in suddenly and brushed his lips against yours in a soft kiss, melting your heart into mush.

When he pulled away, it was his usual teasing grin on his handsome face. “Now, I only have one duty left— that is to get my cute wife back on her feet. So, be a good little wifey and have lots of fruits and sleep, okay?”

You giggled freely this time, feeling tremendously safe and loved, and instead of answering, you chose to peck his lips instead— hoping that he’d know that you trusted him with your whole life.

. . .

“By the way… Satoru, where’s our baby?” you missed your pumpkin, and while being with your funny husband lifted your spirits, you wanted to cuddle him too.

He chuckled in response. “Ah! Since Megumi is on an assignment, I left him with Ichiji earlier! Don’t worry, I’ll come pick him up soon, ‘kay?”

Epilogue

“I’m going out for a bit, and if you ever make him upset or cry… I can and I will sense it! So Ichiji—do your best!”

“Bwa…”

“Eeek!”

Ichiji stared at Baby Gojo with literal sweat on his forehead, as the little being curiously looked up at him.

By all means, this baby was adorable. Even more so when his father dressed him in a shark onesie. It was a peculiar choice—just like any of Gojo’s choices were—but it sure made the baby look even more endearing.

But the thing is… he didn’t feel secure enough to hold him! Especially when he didn’t know if Gojo’s claim of telepathic connection with his son was true or not!

Amidst his thoughts, suddenly Ichiji felt a soft touch on his arm and immediately turned to find the little munchkin putting his little hand on him and staring at him with such pureness unbefitting of Gojo Satoru’s son.

How can this baby be a stark contrast to his father? Ichiji was almost tempted to snuggle him, but he knew better.

“O-oh… d-don’t touch me…”

And as he retracted his hand back, the baby suddenly widened his eyes, feeling betrayed apparently, as his little lips wobbled and face scrunched up, so ready to burst into tears—

“Hic…”

“—!! Nooo! Don’t cry! Your father will fry me! Eeek!!”

[dragon-ascent]

Zhongli has a photographic memory...and he clearly remembers each and every time you died by his hand in the millennia that have passed.

It’s an innocuous chance encounter. You come barreling down the street, right into his path, trip, and being the gentleman he is, Zhongli steadies you, a hand on your wrist as he pulls you back up. "Please be careful."

"Thank you, sir! And I'm so sorry!" you exclaim, thoroughly frazzled and blinking, looking up into his eyes with sincere apology swirling within your gaze.

And then his breath catches in his throat. Time seems to come to a standstill, the din of life softening to silence. The people busting about the city do not exist within this suspended vignette. Even his immortal heart seems to have ceased its endless chase of time.

There is only you and him and him and you.

Zhongli remembers your face. You look the exact same as you had all those years ago. He remembers the way this very face of yours, now unstained and unchained by war-ravaged troubles, had contorted in anguish and had become stained with tears, sweat, blood, and ash not once, not twice, but thrice throughout the course of his long, long life, each time more agonizing than the last.

The first time he'd killed you was near the start of the Archon War: you were manning a ballista atop a hill, taking out his forces with terrifying accuracy. He'd rushed at you swiftly, the two of you becoming locked in a vicious one-on-one. The god had been holding back; should you have wanted to retreat, he was giving you an opening.

But no. You persisted, and he had no choice but to end you, the life leaving your eyes as blood arced out of your fatal wound, tears pooling but never shed as you closed them for good.

The second time was around a thousand years after that. The war raged on, Rex Lapis continued to power through, protecting his people in the face of shrouded evil. And you were the general of an enemy god, slashing and hacking your way to a promised glory…even when the plains you were pushing on through were set alight, the fire all-consuming and impartial in its fury.

You were already a dying thing, soot clinging to the parts of your skin that weren’t already charred to the bone, your spear raised in your only functioning arm to hurl at the Geo Lord and end his victory streak. Dealing you a swift death had been far better than having to watch you slowly burn alive, suffering, even if your pain had been masterfully concealed by your desire to win.

The third time he saw your face, you were crawling out of Khaenri'ah, eyes bloodshot and teeth gritted so hard they might shatter. You locked eyes with him as he stood by and watched, silent, impassive. Then, you lunged. With nothing but the tattered clothes on your body and your dirt-smattered, blackened fists clenched tight, you lunged at him, hatred burning your very soul, or what little there was of it left. Your speech had already begun to turn incoherent, your movements staggered.

Killing you then had been an act of mercy. Had you survived, you would have completely turned into a Hilichurl, wandering aimlessly for the rest of your miserable life.

And here you are, in present-day Liyue, and he had gone five hundred years without seeing you and had contented himself with the notion that he may never have anything to do with you again.

It shouldn't affect him this much. Those were times of war and strife; he was merely doing what had to be done.

All the same, the hand curled around your wrist tightens by the faintest degree. Time resumes; life flows once more.

There will not be a fourth time.

You're unsure why Mr. Zhongli is all buddy-buddy with you, checking in on you frequently like he has some kind of personal stake in your wellbeing, his touch and gaze lingering longer than they should, his ramblings growing more impassioned when you are his listening companion. It's nice and all that he treats you to a wholesome meal almost every day, but...er...why?

Oh well. It makes your task a lot easier. The dagger you carry glints dangerously even when mired in shadow. Killing this plain old consultant should be simple enough, when the time is right.

So this is kind of a teaser for a longer fic I'm planning heh.

[senseandaccountability]

“It takes the wrong sort to put the world right.”

A huge problem for me with the tone of the narrative is that outside a very carefully curated playthrough experience with preconceived ideas of and love for Solas, Veilguard is probably the least compassionate game I’ve played in forever, while spouting out lines about how everyone can find a new path in life because our nature isn’t written in stone, our fates are our own, as well as plenty of HR department lines about working together as a team.

“It takes the wrong sort to put the world right.” The game says that, but it definitely doesn’t mean it. At least I don’t feel it. You are so very rarely challenged in your idea of who this wrong sort is and what they could bring to the table. Davrin speaks of the Wardens recruiting at the Gallows but you meet only adorable, righteous and charming ones. The Crows aren’t the wrong sort anymore, they’re just adorably Antivan upper class. And so on and so forth. Rook certainly isn’t the wrong sort either, they’re mentally around 19 years old and stumbling their way through the world like some romance novel protag. In one of the most thematically shallow plots, Rook gets thrown into a prison of regret fit to hold a god but unlike Solas, Rook doesn’t do regrets or guilt because Rook isn’t that complex. Rook hasn’t been allowed to feel any guilt for three acts, just how are they meant to be stuck in a regret prison?  

Compare with Origins where you yourself could be just that wrong sort that would put the world right. ALL of my Origins PCs would get stuck in Solas’s prison due to the weight of their own fuckups. If not during the game events where you could make shitty moves en masse, then because of their origin stories. Brosca and Tabris would get out of there through sheer fury alone - fuck you, I am a wreck because YOU MADE ME ONE, WORLD OF THEDAS - but the nobles would stew. Amell would loop in some guilt trip regarding blood magic and Jowan and whatnot.

Compare with Origins where Loghain is a piece of shit for most of the narrative. He actively wants to kill you and your Order, it’s nothing personal (okay, a little personal) but he just needs you gone. If you want to, you can hack and slash your way through some release there and just have him executed. BUT the game also challenges you on that idea. It presents a very pragmatic alternative that comes with a very plausible downside (you lose Alistair). It presents not excuses but explanations - do with them what you will. Loghain has people in his corner through the entire trilogy, arguing his case. Cauthrien FALLS TO HER KNEES before you, pleading to spare his life. Threnn in DAI will stan him for the rest of her life. Anora tells you stories about the man behind the name.  And Arl Eamon’s world view and idea of Loghain is shown to be more than a little self-serving when faced with the politics of the Landsmeet. Things around Loghain blur. In the Ostagar DLC they allow things to blur even further when Loghain’s pragmatism is countered by Wynne’s player character-moralism (ie “someone died, it’s always wrong if someone died even if that death prevented 9000000 deaths you KILLED someone!!!!!111”). Origins tells me - or hints at - why Loghain became the wrong sort, shows me ways in which he is also the right sort and leaves me wondering about him. Because the game is gritty and dark and weird but also yes, compassionate. If you execute him, Anora will mourn him because she loves him regardless. If you have him join the Wardens she will sit with him while he recovers because he is undeniably an asshole but he’s also her father who braided her hair and showed her the world. A good narrative never, ever forgets that.  Veilguard feels so different here, maybe it's just me. I'm pretty sure I'm almost done being salty now, I just... feel a lot about narratives.

[soulbrothershow]

Nia Brown

Five years after the return of Foxy Brown

The city was on fire. Not just with flames—but with fury, frustration, and fear. The police cruisers that once patrolled the neighborhoods with the illusion of order were now the steel chariots of a syndicate gone rogue. They weren’t protecting. They were poisoning. Not with bullets alone, but with synthetic drugs—lethal, untraceable, and flooding the streets faster than hope could escape.

Nia Brown had seen it all. And five years after her godmother, the legendary Foxy Brown, rescued her from the clutches of a sex trafficking ring, Nia had grown into her own.

Now in her late twenties, she was a striking blend of grace and grit. Her hair coiled in a proud halo, her voice was velvet with a razor’s edge, and her fists—well, let’s just say they spoke fluent truth to power.

And tonight, power was about to get its ass whooped.

It began with blood.

Benny Jacobs, a beloved community activist known as “Uncle Benny,” was left for dead behind the Martin Luther King Jr. Community Center. His crime? Speaking out at a city council meeting about police corruption and overdoses in the projects.

When Nia saw him in the hospital—his face swollen, ribs shattered, and eyes full of hurt—something in her snapped.

“They beat him like a dog, Nia,” said Sister Carla, one of the elders. “And the mayor ain’t said a damn word. Not even a tweet.”

Nia clenched her jaw. “They think we soft. Think we gon’ beg for mercy that ain’t never comin’.” She looked out the window, her reflection merging with the city’s glow. “Well, it’s time they learn. We ain’t beggin’—we takin’ it.”

Back at her loft, Nia lit a stick of sage and dialed the one person who always knew what to do.

“Talk to me, baby girl,” came the smooth, steady voice of Foxy Brown over the speaker.

“They done crossed the line, Auntie,” Nia said. “They beat Uncle Benny within an inch of his life. And now kids droppin’ from this new dope they got out—call it ‘Blue Fire.’ Real sinister shit.”

Foxy was quiet for a moment. “You ready to step into that heat for real, Nia? This ain’t just survival. This is war.”

“I was born in the fire, Auntie,” Nia said. “Now I’m burnin’ back.”

“Then don’t go in half-cocked. You need people. You need eyes, muscle, brains. You build your circle. And when it’s time, you strike where it hurts the most.”

And so she did.

She rallied a crew the system forgot:

Tank – Ex-military, built like a freight train, had a grudge after his brother OD’d on Blue Fire.

Rico – A tech wiz who could hack the mayor’s email while eating Hot Cheetos.

Nikki Blaze – A former EMT turned street soldier, deadly with a Glock and a gospel hymn.

Preach – A spoken word poet who’d seen too many of his students fall victim to the drug wave.

They met in backrooms and barbershops, plotted in bodegas, and prayed in basements.

And when Nia showed them the blueprint—the stash houses, the dirty cops on payroll, the armored transport trucks—they all nodded.

“It’s time,” Tank said, cocking his shotgun.

The first hit was poetic.

A squad car known for extorting teens in South Central pulled up outside a corner store. Nia and Nikki were waiting. When the cops swaggered inside, the sisters went to work. They slashed the tires, planted a USB in the dash to steal bodycam data, and spray-painted “WE WATCHIN’ NOW” across the hood.

By the time the cops ran out, confused and enraged, Nia and Nikki were gone—ghosts in leather and attitude.

“Let the city feel our presence,” Nia said later. “We the new shadow they can’t outrun.”

But it wasn’t long before the shadow fought back.

Lt. Debbie Murdock—steel-eyed, cold-hearted, and the architect behind the entire police-drug operation—put a hit out on Nia’s crew. She was ex-SWAT and built like a blade in a holster. If the LAPD had a devil, her badge number was burned into its flesh.

She tapped her radio. “Bring me the Brown girl. Alive. I wanna see the fire die in her eyes myself.”

The war escalated fast.

An explosion rocked a narcotics depot Nia and Tank torched. A city hall rally turned into a firefight when plainclothes officers tried to snatch Preach offstage and found themselves overwhelmed by a sea of fists and fury.

Videos spread like wildfire. The people rose.

“THEY’RE TAKING OUR STREETS BACK!” screamed the headlines.

Then came the ambush.

A late-night meeting in a warehouse turned trap. Murdock’s men surrounded the place, guns drawn.

“COME OUT, BROWN! OR WE TURN THIS WHOLE BUILDING INTO ASH!”

Nia peeked from behind cover, breathing hard. “Y’all ready to make ‘em remember?”

Rico grinned, clutching his detonator. “Say the word, sis.”

Nia stepped out, bold and defiant.

“I’m right here, Murdock! And I’m still breathin’!”

Murdock emerged from the shadows. “Not for long.”

She charged. The crowd cleared.

It was Nia vs. Murdock—no guns, just fists and fire.

The fight was brutal. Murdock swung like a brute, but Nia moved with rhythm. She ducked, struck, elbowed, spun. Blood flew. Teeth cracked.

“You think this city belongs to you?” Nia growled, wiping blood from her mouth.

“It does,” Murdock hissed, lunging again.

Nia caught her fist, twisted it, and delivered a knee to the gut. Murdock doubled over.

“This city belongs to the people. And we done bein’ afraid.”

With a final roar, Nia flipped Murdock onto a stack of crates. The woman didn’t rise.

The police arrived. But not to arrest Nia. Something had changed.

The community had surrounded the warehouse. Hundreds deep. Cameras rolling. Ministers, students, grandmothers—all bearing witness.

The Chief of Police stepped forward.

“This ends tonight,” he said. “Lt. Murdock has been relieved. An investigation begins immediately.”

But Nia knew better. “Words mean nothing without action,” she said. “We’ll be watchin’. And if y’all fall short again—we comin’ back.”

Later, as dawn broke over the city, Nia stood on a rooftop, her team around her.

“You did it,” Nikki whispered.

“No,” Nia said, eyes scanning the skyline. “We did it. And this ain’t the end. This is just the beginning.”

Her phone buzzed. A text from Foxy:

Now that’s how you raise hell, baby girl. Welcome to the legacy.

THE END (for now)

“Sister Justice” rides again…

[spooky-momth]

OKAY SO-- she used to be a seamstress around the late seventies/early eighties, married with no kids. She truly loved her husband but lately he had grown cold, distant, and started brutally critiquing her appearance. No matter what she tried, no matter how she changed herself, her husband was never satisfied.

One day she was let off work early. She wanted to surprise her husband. Instead she found him in bed with another woman.

Rightfully furious (and devastated), she began yelling at her husband, and screaming at the woman to get out of her bed. Her husband got up and walked towards her, his complete silence cutting through her screams as her fury was replaced with fear. She quickly dug through her purse and pointed her trusty tailor scissors at him, telling him to stay back. Instead he grabbed her hands and tried to wrestle the scissors from her. In the process she accidentally slashed his cheek.

A fury that she had never seen in him before filled his eyes as he ripped the scissors from her hands, slashed her across the mouth, and then stabbed her until her bloody corpse lied lifeless on the floor. The man and his mistress buried her out in the forest.

A week later, the mailman let himself in their home as he usually did, expecting the man to be away as he placed his mail in the usual spot. Instead he found the man and his mistress, completely hacked to pieces, large gashes spread ear to ear from their mouths.

Uh. Originally I just had a vague idea but I guess my brain decided it was Overdrive Time holy shit

Anyway! Yeah!!! Her backstory I think!!!!

Her appearance as a yokai is what she looked like before she started changing herself for her husband, albeit with the large gash he inflicted on her.

Also kinda makes the ship with Dexter sweet in a weird way. He not only loves her for herself, but BECAUSE he loves her appearance as she is, fucked up and everything

(you can reply to this publically if you want because. I'm honestly really proud of this and would like people to see it dkjfndsjfn)

OH MY GODDD. YESSS okay that's so awful for her but I LOVE THISS. poor woman,, she didn't deserve her fate at all. but I do not blame her for becoming a vengeful spirit because of it; who wouldn't when that kind of injustice was how you met your end?

I 💜 support 💜 womens 💜 wrongs 💜 !!!

And true!!! shoutout to CarvedSmiles for real for real... he matches her freak 💜 I love that for those two. go botch those human taxidermies, lovebirds!!

Hmmm... Around how old was she when she died? I could narrow it down to a range of years and look for popular Japanese baby names from that period; Maybe I could look for something to do with sewing especially :3

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Shepard Angst Fic

Y'all are getting this here before I edit it and post it on ao3 tomorrow because I am desperate for external validation and because I NEED folks to cry over my self imposed Shepard sibling angst.

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“Angel!”

Angela Shepard is no stranger to yelling. The name Shepard carries with it the guarantee of a temper hotter than the late Autumn sun and the vocal cords to make sure the whole street knows it. Ma is only ever happy when she’s hacked off, Curly has never once been quiet for longer than three seconds back to back, and she herself wears fury like socy girls wear their hair ribbons. 

So yes, she’s no stranger to yelling– but she ain’t never heard Curly yell like that. He doesn’t sound mad, he sounds scared– and that is infinitely worse. There isn’t a lot that scares Curly Shepard, or any Shepard really. They’ve all seen too much.

“Goddamnit Angel,” Curly roars again, “get out here and bring the first aid kit!”

That spurs her to action and she snatches the small first aid kit out from under the bathroom sink and hightails it to the living room.

Curly is there, wide eyed, Tim propped up against him. For a second Angela doesn’t realize what the problem is. When she does, her brain refuses to let her believe it.

A dark stain is spreading rapidly across the side of Tim’s shirt, even as Curly half drags half carries him over to the couch and deposits him on it as gently as he can. Despite how careful Curly’s being, a pained grunt still forces its way out from between Tim’s clenched teeth.

“Call Manuel,” Curly orders, naming Tim’s second in command, “get him to bring the truck back now and be ready to drive. And get Sylvia down here too.”

Running to the kitchen, she dials Manuel’s home number and hurriedly explains the situation, cold terror making her harsher than usual. She doesn’t bother trying to get ahold of Sylvia- Sylvie knows everything that happens on the east side, she’s probably already on her way.

“What happened?” She demands as soon as she gets back to the living room. Curly’s hands are slippery with blood and he’s got a wad of rapidly reddening gauze pressed tightly against the wound in Tim’s stomach. Her older brother’s face is twisted in pain, his breathing even more laboured than it was a minute ago, tight gasps forcing themselves out from behind clenched teeth.

She’s seen knife wounds before, of course she has. Connor Tyrril from the Brumly gang had died from an infected knife wound last year, and Tim and even Curly had been sliced before, long gashes that eventually faded into rough scars– but never anything like this. The slashes they’d sustained in the past were meant to hurt, but this wound was very specifically meant to kill. 

She doesn’t know what to do. 

“Who did it?” She demands, hands fluttering uselessly. Curly seems to have a handle on what to do, his wide eyes at odds with his steady hands, counting under his breath as he applies pressure, but Angela doesn’t have a clue how to help and isn’t even sure that she can. “What happened?”

“A few of the boys from Tiber street apparently weren’t too fond of Tim’s latest shipment,” Curly explains, pressing a new piece of gauze over the others, already soaked through with blood. 

“Names Carlos.”

“Dustin Blackwell and Ian Forrester. Tried to fight ‘em off but they had about seven buddies backing ‘em.”

“They’re dead.” Angela vows, horrified to feel the way her eyes are stinging. She means it too. If anything happens to Tim those assholes are dead, juvie and jail and records be damned. The steely look buried under the panic in Curly’s eyes tells her he agrees.

Tim groans, despite how hard Angela can tell he’s trying to hold it back, and Curly stiffens, hands jerking slightly and tearing another horrible sound from Tim’s throat.

“Go see if there’s any more gauze somewhere,” he orders, pressing the last of the stuff over Tim’s wound, the fabric reddening as if by magic, “grab some of my t-shirts if you can’t find any.”

Angela runs to do as she’s bid, wishing she could do something, anything else. For all Curly is usually the last person who should be left in charge of anything, let alone any sort of crisis, right now he seems to be about the only person who knows what to do and Angela can’t help but cling to it like a lifeline. She can’t fix Tim, but she can sure as hell help Curly help him and if all she can do is grab t-shirts, you can best believe she’ll grab the whole stack in her drawer and Curly’s too.

She can’t have been gone more than thirty seconds but Tim is noticeably worse when she returns, sweat beading on his forehead, his skin looking closer to grey than its usual light brown. 

“Hold this for me,” Curly nods to the wad of gauze he’s pressing on with both hands, “don’t worry about hurtin’ him, just press as hard as you can. I’m gonna check his pulse.”

Tim lets out an almost inhuman scream the second she touches him, and it’s almost enough to have her jerk away and apologize if that wouldn’t render the whole thing useless. Curly waits until Angela’s hands are pressing hard beside his before he deigns to move one away, deftly pressing two fingers under Tim’s neck with one hand, counting under his breath. It seems like a long time before he stops counting even though the clock says it wasn’t more than a minute, and the tightness in his jaw belies his anxiety. 

Not good then- or getting worse.

“Well?” She snaps, too full of fear to know what to do with it, trying to hide behind a more familiar anger.

“It’s slow,” Curly snaps right back, her twin in soul and temperament and right now a visceral type of fear, “and gettin’ worse. He’s fucking bleeding out, Angel what’d you expect!”

“Shut up! He ain’t gonna bleed out! Shut up!”

Curly glares a second longer before his mask slips just a bit and she sees herself in his blue eyes. For a second they’re three years old again and Tim is in the reformatory and they’re both so hungry and alone and scared it feels like nothing will ever be okay again. Then she blinks, and Curly’s jaw tightens, and they’re back to now, in a no less horrible present.

“Damnit,” Curly snarls, but his voice breaks, “where the fuck is Manuel?”

“Quit arguin’” Tim speaks for the first time since Curly dragged him in and Angela could sob. His voice is the same gruff bark it’s always been, just as steady as it always is despite his laboured breathing, even as his lean form has started to shake uncontrollably under her hands, making it hard to keep the gauze and now one of her own t-shirts pressed against his wound, “and listen’ to me.”

Curly watches him with wide eyes, forever in awe, the way he’s always been, always willing to follow Tim anywhere, even off a cliff. Of course, Angela can't exactly blame him when she’s the exact same way.

“L-listen,” Tim repeats, his black eyes shining with an emotion Angela can’t place, and she is listening because its Tim talking and he always knows what to do. He’s going to tell them what to do and he’s going to be okay. They’ll do what he says and everything will be fine. “Listen.”

He swallows, grimacing as he lets out another strained breath before his sharp eyes focus on them again. 

“You’re good kids,” he says, fierce, so fierce, and Angela blinks because that isn’t right, it isn’t a plan, it isn’t a way to fix this. And it isn’t even true. She and Curly are about as far from good kids as it’s possible to be.

“You’re good kids,” Tim repeats with conviction, like he can hear what she’s thinking, “don’t let nobody tell you otherwise, savvy? I’m damn proud of you. Both of you.”

“Tim-”

“Good kids,” His eyes have taken on an almost glassy quality, “My kids.”

His entire body goes limp. Angela screams.

Manuel chooses that exact moment to burst through the door, Sylvia on his heels, and there's no time, no time for anything anymore except for Curly to grab Tim’s shoulders and Manuel grab his feet, and Angela try to keep pressure on that fucking stab wound all the way to the truck and then to the hospital until a team of nurses rolls Tim away on a gurney. Even then, the only reason they manage it is because Sylvia and Curly both half drag her away.

“Let go, I’m goin’ with him!”

“You can’t.” Sylvia’s voice cuts like a blade. “They ain’t gonna let you in the operation’ room Angel, so quit havin’ a fit and come sit in the waitin’ room.”

“Shepards stick together.” Angela turns to Curly for support but Curly doesn’t seem to be all here right now, staring vacantly into space and trembling like a leaf. “Right Curls?”

“C’mon,'' Sylvia shakes her head when Curly doesn’t answer, “We aren’t doin’ much good for ol’ Timmy in this parking lot, and we won’t do much more in the waitin’ room but at least there’ll be a place to sit.”

Unable to argue, Angela follows Sylvia inside, Curly trailing dreamlike after them, and they sit in the waiting room and do just that: wait. Manuel had left as soon as the doctors got Tim inside so he isn’t there with them, but Angela can’t find it in herself to care. Tim runs a gang, not a family. Manuel knows that as well as any of them.

Angela squeezes her hands into fists to stop the tremble in her fingers. Wonders how Sylvia can still be so unfeeling when her best friend has just been stabbed. Decides she doesn’t care. Watches as Curly slowly returns to himself, pulling out a cigarette and offering her one. They both pretend it’ll stop their hands from shaking. They’re both wrong.

She wants to do something. To start a fight or cause a problem, maybe kick up a fuss in the food court or swear at a nurse, do something to assuage the fear and the anger burning it’s way through her chest, do anything that isn’t just sit here and wait.

You’re good kids, Tim’s words echo in her head every time she’s about to get up and do something, keeping her rooted to the stupid plastic chair, doomed seemingly forever to the horrific purgatory of the waiting room. She isn’t a good kid, but Tim thinks she is, so she can be, at least for now, at least until she knows he’s okay.

“Anyone here for Timothy Shepard?”

Angela’s on her feet immediately, Curly at her side. Sylvia rises more languidly to face the woman at the nurses station, cool as ever.

“I don’t have any news yet,” the nurse says apologetically, seeing Angela and Curly’s tense faces, “I’m sorry. I just need someone to fill out the intake forms. Is he a minor?”

For a second Angela hates the warm faced woman more than she’s ever hated anyone.

“He’s eighteen,” Sylvia strolls forward, reaching a manicured hand towards the woman’s clipboard, “I’ll fill it out.”

The nurse starts to hand the clipboard to her, then freezes. “Um, I’m only supposed to give it to an emergency contact…”

“I’m his wife,” Sylvia lies smoothly, “you ain’t gonna keep me from seein’ my husband. I doubt he’s even got anyone listed considerin’ we only recently got hitched.”

The nurse checks the chart again. 

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Sylvia Shepard. Maiden name Devares.”

“Well it’s true he ain’t got anyone listed…” Angela can see the nurse crumbling, “I don’t suppose you got your marriage licence with you?”

“‘Course I do,” Sylvia reaches into her cleavage and pulls out the forged marriage certificate Curly had made a few months back when Sylvia needed Tim’s help opening a bank account, “there, see?”

The nurse glances at it and finally passes over the clipboard. 

“My apologies Mrs. Shepard.”

Angela winces. Sylvia is many things, but she ain’t a Shepard, and she sure as shit ain’t Tim’s wife. Still, the charade has worked wonders in the past, and it’s working wonders again now.

“Thanks.” Sylvia offers her a perfunctory smile and turns on her heel, strutting back to her seat, Angela and Curly trailing behind.

“What’s takin’ so long?” Curly mutters to her, while Sylvia purses her lips, flipping through the forms, “we’ve been here an hour. How’s he still in surgery?”

Angela doesn’t know, so she doesn’t answer.

They wait.

Sylvia finishes filling the pages with her chicken scratch handwriting and returns them to the nurses desk. An ambulance arrives with some broad sporting a gunshot wound. Nurses bustle, doctors hustle, people come in and out of the waiting room, and still, they are not called.

Curly’s knee bounces more with each passing minute. Sylvia looks so bored Angela could slap her. Something somewhere is beeping and Angela is going to lose her mind.

“Family of Timothy Shepard?”

He hates being called Timothy, is all she can think this time, when a doctor gives them a practiced sympathetic look and tells them Tim's finally out of surgery and they can see him. He says a bunch of other stuff too, but Angela doesn’t understand half of it, and she isn’t really listening anyway because they can see Tim now and everything's gonna be okay.

Then they walk into the hospital room and Angela’s world shatters.

She is used to Tim being many things- tough and smart, the type of responsible someone only becomes when you walk the fine line between being a father and a brother. She is used to his rage, the one thing he inherited from both parents, is used to the cold fury he tries to mask it with, with the almost inhuman level of self control he wields like a knife. She is used to Tim fighting, lying, cheating. To Angela, Tim has always been untouchable, larger than life. Not a hero, no, but not a villain either, instead something amorphous and not entirely human, more powerful than anyone else she knows. Now though, for the first time in years, he looks entirely, brokenly human. 

And small. That isn’t right, Tim isn’t small, has always towered over her and Curly, even now they're going on thirteen and have finally started to properly grow. 

He’s lying on a pillow, his brown skin still has that same bloodless grey tinge as earlier, even though at least two of the tubes plugged into his arm seem to be giving him more, which is good since half the blood in his body is still on the couch in their living room. Even still, what use is the hospital blood if it isn’t making him better? There’s a bag on clear fluid- what do they call that again? An IV?- in a needle beside the blood going into Tim’s arm, and a tube taped under his nose. At first Angela thought there was a sheet pulled up to his chest but when she stumbles forward she realizes with a jolt of horror that those are bandages wrapped so thoroughly and tightly around Tim’s entire chest she can hardly tell where they end and the actual sheets begin.

Somewhere, somehow, the doctor is still talking, Sylvia taking in each word with sharp eyes and looking anywhere but Tim, but Angela can’t hear anything over the roaring in her ears. Curly trembles almost imperceptibly beside her and she knows he feels it too, the horrible wrongness that hangs in the air, making this room one of nightmares.

Angela isn’t stupid. She knows she’s seen and lived through a lot of terrible things, faced horrors that most kids never dream of. Still, this has to be the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

Finally, the doctor leaves and the room is pitched into silence.

Sylvia pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one carefully, admiring the slight glow of the tip for a second before taking a long, slow drag. Only once she exhales, blowing a cloud of smoke that almost seems to fill the tiny room, does she look at Tim.

Something grim and dark settles in Sylvia’s hazel eyes, hardening more and more with each breath she watches the tube force through Tim’s lungs. The look sends a chill through Angela, a horrible itch starting at the back of her mind. Next to Tim, Angela probably knows more about Sylvia than anyone in the world, but right now she hasn’t got the slightest clue what she might be thinking. 

“Curly,” Sylvia says, in the same husky drawl as usual, disarmingly nonchalant, “you got your switch on ya?”

Curly blinks. “‘Course.”

“Give it here.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument and Curly doesn’t try to, pulling the blade from his pocket and placing it in Sylvia’s waiting palm. Manicured nails wrap around it with practiced ease and that horrible itch in the back Angela’s mind suddenly becomes painful.

“What-” the words die on her lips. She can’t bring herself to ask what Sylvia is going to do. She knows what she’s going to do. The dark haired girl has never been one to get angry, but she always, always gets even. An eye for an eye. A humiliation for a humiliation. A stab wound for a stab wound.

A life for a life.

Without another word Sylvia turns on her heel and stalks away, letting the door slam behind her.

Then it’s just Angela and Curly and the boy in the bed that is supposed to be their brother but isn’t. 

There's a horribly ugly fake leather armchair in the corner of the room Angela drags it closer to Tim’s bed and perches on the armrest, Curly half collapsing into the chair itself. 

She’d thought the waiting room was bad but this is worse, sitting beside Tim but being unable to reach him, watching him fighting a fight that for once neither she nor Curly can fight with him, no matter how much she wishes she could.

He’s going to die. 

The thought rises, unbidden, from the part of her mind that is forever young and terrified and hopeless and immediately she knows it to be true. The earth is round, the sky is blue, and her big brother is going to die.

Panic flares in her chest but the more she tries to tamp it down, to banish the thought back to the depths of wherever it came from, the more it demands to be heard.

He’s going to die. Tim is going to die and there is nothing she or Curly or this entire fucking hospital can do about it. Tim is going to die. She and Curly will lose the only real family they’ve ever had and her whole shitty life will get so much worse without anyone to take care of her. Curly will go off the rails, will end up in jail or dead too and then she will truly be entirely, unequivocally, alone.

“Angel?” Curly’s voice is plaintive, small, and she knows he feels it too, “what are we gonna do?”

She knows what he really means, what he’s really asking. She doesn’t have any answers.

Instead she reaches out a trembling hand and Curly grabs hers like a lifeline, squeezing her fingers so tight her bones creak. Angela hangs on just as tightly.

They haven’t done this in years, not since they were seven or so, have barely touched at all in the intervening years, both too used to physical contact meaning pain to ever really be comfortable touching anyone. Now though, the pressure of Curly’s hand in hers feels like the only thing tethering her to the earth. 

They stay like that, hands clasped together in a silent vigil, until Tim wakes up.

It’s neither a slow, nor a pretty process. First a machine starts beeping like crazy and then half a dozen nurses and doctors rush in and kick her and Curly out again into the hallway, but when all is said and done and they’re allowed back in the room, Tim’s black eyes are open and the breathing tube is gone from under his nose. 

Angela Shepard doesn’t believe in miracles, but in that moment it feels like she’s been granted one. Then again, she thinks, as Curly starts mouthing off in an attempt to hide the unshed tears in his eyes, Tim has been the cause of nearly every miracle she’s ever witnessed, and this one is no different.

As Tim starts to yell and Curly’s unmistakable donkey laugh fills the room  Angela can’t help but chide herself for being so stupid. Tim Shepard never lost a fight. Just because this one looked a little different didn’t make it any different.

[nostalgicnarrator]

Over Hill and Under Mountain

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Word Count: 5,243 Parings: Thorn X Bilbo Description: Bilbo is fed up.

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

Mild mentions of physical violence.

Note:

this is it, we've come to this stories end, i hope everyone who has stuck it out this long love this story as much as i have loved writing it. good day, afternoon and night

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Bilbo was vaguely aware as he drifted in and out of consciousness, a tone of voice or a few words would make it to him in the void he was stuck in.

His mind felt like it was floating in mud as it throbbed in pain. He hadn’t been sure how long he had been like that.

He had dreams, or was it memories?  He couldn’t tell anymore, they were all blurred together, strange fragments of what once was or had never been.

He opened his eyes in the shadows of Mirkwood, he stumbled a bit as he walked along with his friends. The trees loomed, their twisted limbs stretching out like skeletal hands, clawing at the air as if to snatch any who dared trespass. 

A thick mist curled around the underbrush, muffling the sound of crunching leaves. The world was cast in an unsettling twilight, where everything seemed to move in the corner of his vision but disappeared when he tried to focus on it.

He looked around, he felt sluggish as he looked at Dwalin, Nori, Fili, Kili, and Thorin. his friends. Right, he had been with them hadn’t he? They had all marched together once, but that was a time ago by now was it not…? 

Bilbo looked around again attempting to make sense, his friends had their blades drawn, each held a grim face. He felt like something was wrong. He hadn’t been here like this, where was he…?

He was suddenly aware of the unnatural silence that clung to the forest, suffocating. And then, they struck.

Out of the trees, from above and below, the spiders came. Massive creatures, larger than horses, with blackened bodies and legs as thick as a man's arm. 

Their eyes held a hunger Bilbo did not remember from before, they seemed darker than before, their fangs dripping deadly venom, Bilbo was acutely aware that these terrors were not the same as the spiders he had faced before. 

The air was thick with the sound of limbs rustling through lives, the crackling sound of skittering feet, an orchestra of death as they descended upon them.

Before they could react, one of the beasts lunged for Dwalin. The dwarf swung his war hammer hard, splattering the spider they came at him all over the ground. But there were too many.

Another came from the side, pincers snapping, and dug its fangs into the dwarf and wrapped him in its sticky webbing with terrifying speed. 

He struggled, but not for long as the venom quickly kicked in and the last Bilbo heard of the dwarf was a roar of fury, Bilbo watched as Dwalin was quickly hoisted into the air, bound in silken threads.

The others shouted, Bilbo whipped his head back to them, he watched as they hacked and slashing at the swarm that was descending on them. 

Bilbo watched as Nori managed to dodge the initial attacks, his knives flashing as he severed the limbs of one spider after another. But soon he, too, was overwhelmed. 

Bilbo tried to shout to warn his friend as a shadow loomed over him, and before Nori could react, he was bitten and wrapped in webbing and dragged screaming into the branches above.

Bilbo covered his mouth when the scream was stopped far too abruptly. Fili and Kili were next, Bilbo watched as they fought together, Fíli twirled his twin blades as he brother notched arrows drew back and released.

Fíli cut through the legs of one of the largest spiders. But they couldn’t keep the pace, soon Kíli released his last arrow and Fíli lost a sword. 

Before they had a chance, webs tangled them up. Kíli called out to his brother desperately, he begged for help. But it wasn’t long before they were bitten and dragged away into the shadows.

And then came the whispering.

The voices slithered through the trees, a sickening melody that wormed its way into Bilbo’s ears. "Tasty, delicious... so tender..." The spiders were speaking, their voices like poison seeping into his mind.

Thorin was last. His sword was cast aside as it had fallen to the ground, Bilbo’s eyes felt wide as he watched Thorin stare up at the towering spiders as they descended. He could see it clearly now-Thorin's face, twisted in horror as the creatures bore down on him.

Bilbo couldn't move, he couldn't speak. It was as if his body had betrayed him, leaving him frozen in place, forced to watch. He could hear the cracking of bones, the wet squelch of flesh torn apart.

The largest of the spiders opened its jaws, revealing rows of jagged teeth, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a whimper. He could still hear the horrible noise. Then it fell silent and Bilbo dared a peek. 

Before he could really see anything the world around him began to fall away, the forest of Mirkwood bled into something else. Soon enough Bilbo found himself standing in a deep valley, a familiar mountain range not far ahead now, this was a place he was sure he recognized. 

His mind told him that it was all too familiar. The wind suddenly whipped viciously around him, carrying with it a horrible smell. He whipped his head around as he heard the snarls of wargs and the harsh, guttural speech of orcs.

The enemy came like a wave, crashing over the horizon with a force that shook the ground. Wargs with their fur matted mounted by orcs with gnarled faces, Bilbo was sure the reek of blood came from them.

The group, who just moments ago had been caught in Mirkwood, wrapped up in a hellish web, were now surrounded, barely able to react. Dwalin swung his axes, Nori darted around as well as he could manage, and Fíli and Kíli fought side by side. But there were too many-too fast.

When Thorin fell the rest followed just as quickly, Bilbo barely registered the screams, the flash of steel, and the bodies hitting the ground. It all blurred together horribly. His eyes darted from one friend to another, each of them falling, each death a punch to his gut. He could feel the panic rising, choking him as he was once again forced to watch. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly

Once more the world fell silent and Bilbo opened his eyes after a moment, but before he could make anything out his vision blurring, he squeezed his eyes shut again as dizziness began to take over.

He felt himself begin to fall so he snapped his eye open and gasped, it was becoming difficult to breathe. He looked around afraid of what horror waited 

Snow fell heavily around him, it whipped and clawed at him, quickly the snow turned a blinding white that made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. 

They were on the narrow path of a cliffside, their steps precarious as the wind threatened to knock them off balance. Bilbo began to wish he had a coat. Something warm to hide from the wind with.

Bilbo watched as Thorin led the way, his eyes set forward, determined. The look was etched into every line of the dwarfs face. Bilbo trudged not too far behind him, then Thorin’s boot slipped, and in an instant, Thorin was gone.

He could hear Kíli and Fíli scream, the sound piercing through the storm. They rushed to the edge, reaching out, Bilbo watched as Thorin tumbled down, down into the abyss below. 

Kíli let out a broken sob as he watched his uncle disappear. Thorin’s body twisted in the air, his arms flailing as he tried to grab onto something, anything, but there was nothing to grab. The dwarf disappeared into the blinding depths below 

The group stood frozen, helpless, as Thorin disappeared into the darkness. No sound followed his fall. Just silence. Then it all faded away. 

Next he remembered inky darkness, the eerie silence. He vaguely wondered when he got there. Sometimes Bilbo would see large pale eyes watching him from the shadows of his mind, sometimes he would hear the music and whisper again. 

It was as if Something was calling out to him, beckoning him. It wanted him to go somewhere. He wanted to follow it, but then he would hear a deeper voice telling him he can’t just yet.

So he would stay. Bilbo wasn’t sure why the voice didn’t want him to fallow the other but he listened. The music he once heard slowly became less and less and instead he could hear a different tone.

A soft voice would sing in rolling sounds, sounds he came to hear under his feet when in the shire. He remembered them from when he was a child. 

The voice was of a woman, her tone was warm and caring. It reminded him of his mother, of a warm place and a soft bed. Of the love of the shire.

Eventually when Bilbo came to, the first thing he could understand in his fevered daze was the sound of arguing. Voices, not singing or humming, normal voices, reached him, distant at first, but growing louder, pulling him from the depths of his sleep. 

One painfully familiar, a deep, tone that sent a wave of warmth coursing through him like warm tea on a cold day. Bilbo felt his heart leap. He knew that voice.

“Th…Thorin…?” Bilbo croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to lift his hand, reaching out for something, anything. The arguing stopped abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence. 

“Thorin…?” He asked again-

“I’m here, Bilbo, I’m right here,” Thorin’s voice broke the stillness. Bilbo felt his hand being taken in a firm tender grip and the warmth of Thorin’s calloused palm.

“Thorin… you made it,” Bilbo murmured, his lips curving into what he hoped was a smile. “I was worried… you wouldn’t.” His voice was softer than he meant, causing Thorin to lean in closer.

Thorin squeezed his hand gently. “We’re here, and we’re all safe,” he assured, his tone soothing. “You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Despite the pain, Bilbo felt a wave of relief wash over him at Thorin’s words. He could hear more mumbling, but the words were indistinct, blurred by the haze that clouded his mind. 

Whatever was said, had Thorin nodding gently, though his eyes never left Bilbo’s face. Bilbo found he couldn’t look away ether.

“You need to sleep, Bilbo,” Thorin urged softly. “Rest now, and I’ll be here when you wake.”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered, his body fighting against the pull of exhaustion. “Promise… you’ll stay?” he whispered, his grip tightening slightly on Thorin’s hand.

“I promise,” Thorin replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “I’m not going anywhere.”

With those words, a calm settled over Bilbo, and he allowed himself to relax, slipping into a dreamless sleep, comforted by the knowledge that Thorin would be there when he woke.

The next time he woke up, it was to the soft light of dawn as it filtered through his room. His eyelids fluttered open, still heavy from sleep, and he blinked a few times before his eyes settled on a figure sitting on the floor beside his bed. 

Thorin was there in the room, an elbow resting on the bed, his face softly framed by the golden morning light. Thorin looked out of the window. Bilbo shifted a bit to get a better look at the dwarf.

Thorn turned to him and smiled, Bilbo stayed quiet as he looked over Thorin's face. Despite the darkish bags under the kings eyes the gold of the rising sun made his eyes gleam ‘He looks handsome like that’ his mind supplied to him and he couldn’t help but agree

“How do you feel…?” Thorin eventually asked, breaking the silence.

And Bilbo’s heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the dwarfs' voice, his face suddenly felt very warm. ‘Answer! Answer him you fool of a Took’ Bilbo blinked blearily.

Thorin kept waiting patiently for an answer, he had turned to face him now, Thorin’s rough hand took Bilbo’s gently. Thorin let his thumb trace over Bilbo’s knuckles.

He watched Throin’s hand for a moment before turning back to looking at him, “…alright… I-…you’re pretty…” Bilbo felt himself say. ‘No! Don’t say that! Stupid’ his mind yelled at him

Thorin looked up at him then chuckled, the sound low and genuine as a smile broke across his features. Bilbo felt his face get even hotter. 

Thorin had to take a few moments before he was calm enough to answer. “Oh, thank you Bilbo, why don’t you go back to sleep?

Bilbo blinked and whined, “no, I wanna be with you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere, I promised I’d stay. Okay?” And when Thorin smiled a little more Bilbo felt himself try to melt.

Bilbo couldn’t help but nod, his gaze remained fixed on Thorin even when Óin entered the room. Thorin turned to quietly talk to him. Bilbo turned to watch the healer for a moment as he moved around the room, and busied himself with preparing herbs. 

Bilbo decided that he was boring so his gaze drifted to Thorin again, watching the dwarf as if afraid he might vanish the moment he looked away.

The days started to pass, as slowly as Bilbo had expected them to. At first it was a hazy mess of thoughts and watching his dwarf. Thorin stayed true, he never strayed far from Bilbo’s side. 

It had been a few days by the time Bilbo found himself lying in bed, watching Thorin, it was strange, almost like waking up but never sleeping. He wasn’t sure how long it had been.

He watched as Thorin sat near him, his mind wondered after a moment, drifting and settling somewhere he couldn’t quite name. He couldn’t place it; he was sure it had one.

It was something that Bilbo hadn’t always felt, but he had come to know it after he met Thorin. something that made Bilbo’s heart feel lighter even on the most difficult of days. 

He didn’t understand it, he couldn’t. But it was always there when Thorin was nearby, and as he got to know the dwarf the loneliness he had once wished for seemed less appealing. 

There was something about Thorin that calmed the constant buzzing. Bilbo hesitantly extended his hand. Thorin didn’t hesitate, when he noticed, his hand reached out immediately and took Bilbo’s.

Soon Bilbo found himself looking forward to every opportunity he had to see Thorin. The dwarf would bring him tea and sit with him for hours. Or on the rare occasion they would talk and on the less rare occasion he’d just sit quietly and hold Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo also found himself huffing in annoyance when Óin eventually had to shoo Thorin away and make Bilbo rest. Thorin’s presence became as vital as the sunlight filtering into the room.

And as Bilbo got better, Thorin’s visits grew longer, the dwarf staying until the stars curiously peaked through the trees. Bilbo often found himself smiling more easily, his heart feeling lighter each day.

Óin would, each and every morning, check Bilbo’s  wounds. He would often shake his head with a frown that almost bordered on disbelief.

Óin shook his head and sighed again. “By all accounts this doesn't make sense. A recovery this quick… by rights, it should’ve taken months, not weeks.”

Gandalf, who had been watching from the doorway, spoke. “Indeed you are right my dear Óin. It’s been many years since I’ve witnessed such a thing.” Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling with a familiar knowing gleam. 

“Is your magic doing this then?” Óin asked, “honestly Gandalf I would like to know when you-”

“No no, nothing like that Óin, I could not help with these injuries more than I have. There are few forces in this world stronger than myself, except, maybe, perhaps,” But Gandalf didn’t finish; he mumbled to himself, nodded and walked away. ÓIn sighed and began changing Bilbo’s bandages.

“Wizard’s” the healer said and Bilbo nodded.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting a soft golden light into the room, Bilbo glanced over at Thorin. The dwarf sat comfortably in a chair, pipe smoke curling lazily around him. 

Bilbo watched as Thorin absentmindedly fidgeted with the silver ring on his finger, his brow furrowed in thought. The sight of him, calm, steady, it made Bilbo feel something strange, something warm. It made him feel safe.

Bilbo had been told that he should stay in bed. Óin had been quite stern about it. To the point where the dwarf had rules, No sitting up too long, no wandering, and absolutely no trips outside or anywhere, not even to the balcony. It was maddening. 

Bilbo could feel his restless energy building up inside him like a storm. He longed for the open air, to feel the breeze on his face, to see Rivendell’s beauty firsthand. But most of all, he just wanted to do something. Anything.

Then, an idea struck him.

“Thorin…?” Bilbo asked, turning his gaze to the dwarf. He hadn’t meant to speak so suddenly, and he was surprised to find Thorin’s eyes already on him.

Thorin hummed in response, his deep blue eyes caught Bilbo’s and for a moment he couldn’t help but stare, Thorin’s eyes were deep and blue, but Bilbo felt that comparing them to water or the sky would cheat them of how beautiful they really were.

Bilbo was suddenly sure he was silent for too long as Thorin’s expression shifted to concern. “Bilbo? Are you alright…?”

“YES! Of course, yes!” Bilbo said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He cleared his throat and smiled. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. I just… Well, will you do something for me?”

Bilbo felt his breath leave him as Thorin’s expression softened, and for a moment Bilbo felt his question disappear from him. 

“Always.” Thorin said, smiling. Bilbo had to look away for a moment. His face heated up as his mind began racing. ‘What in vala’s name is wrong with you’ Bilbo looked back at Thorin as he kept talking. “What do you need? Are you hungry, or-“

“No, no, I’m alright for now,” Bilbo quickly interrupted. He offered a smile to Thorin. Bilbo could still feel his heart thumping wildly in his rib cage. 

Thorin tilted his head a bit and put his pipe away quickly. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?” Concerned began to take Thorin’s face.

“Nothing! I’m okay! Just… Could you read to me?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Thorin blinked once, the again. Bilbo could tell he was clearly taken aback. “Read… to you? You want me to read to you?”

“Yes! If, if it is not too much trouble,” Bilbo replied, hoping he didn’t sound foolish. He surely felt a bit foolish asking, he felt a bit childish too. But the need for some form of distraction soon waved that feeling away.

Thorin furrowed his brow, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes. “Bilbo, I haven't read-I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

And Bilbo felt himself deflate a bit at that, but he wasn’t going to give up here. “Oh, come now Thorin! I’m sure you’re a wonderful storyteller.”

Throin took a deep breath and looked outside to the balcony of Bilbo’s room. “I don’t know, Bilbo-“

“Please?” Bilbo pushed himself up some and flinched a little, Bilbo fought a grin as his plan worked, Thorin immediately got up and pushed him back down gently. Bilbo grabbed his hand and kept it on his chest.

“…I’m terribly bored Thorin, as much as I love youuu-‘re company, if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to go mad!” Blibo looked up with as pleading a look as he could manage, he hoped it looked pitiful enough to work. “I would read them myself but Óin nearly had a fit the last time I tried.” 

Thorin gave a long-suffering sigh, and Bilbo grinned at him as he walked over to the small pile. “Alright, alright. Just one chapter.”

Thorin reached for one of the books that had been left on the bedside table, flipping it open, he flipped a few pages and scanned the words for a moment before he began to read for Bilbo.

Thorin’s voice was deep and steady, it was clear and strong yet soothing, Bilbo struggled to pay attention to the words that Thorin was saying.

Bilbo’s eyelids began to grow heavy. The warmth of Thorin’s presence, the sound of his voice, was almost too much. It wrapped around Bilbo like a blanket, soft and reassuring.

Before long, Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut, and he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Bilbo could feel something simmering between him and Thorin as the days went, something that had been there for some time. He hadn’t been sure if the name he wanted to call it was true 

But now Bilbo was sure, It was love. Simple, undeniable love.

He felt it whenever Thorin looked at him. He was sure of how his heart would flutter and speed up. The way his breath caught in his throat, the way he had to fight the blush that crept up his neck.

Then, Bilbo wasn’t so sure anymore.

Thorin’s visits became less frequent and at first it was small things; Thorin sitting farther away, the conversations growing shorter or stopping abruptly. 

Bilbo really did try not to dwell on it. Thorin was, after all, a king. And being so far from his kingdom was sure to make him busy. 

The days began to drag on again, Bilbo couldn’t help but notice the distance anymore. And when Bilbo had to remind himself of this over and over, to try and convince himself that it wasn’t anything personal. Thorin was simply busy.

It began to feel like a lie, Thorin was in Rivendell, halfway across the map and a storm had apparently taken to settling over the Misty’s, that no raven would want to fly through.

So what could he possibly be doing? And why was it taking so long? Why did it feel as though Thorin was slipping through his fingers? Then there was the avoidance! 

If Bilbo could manage to slip away from Óin long enough to find Thorin the dwarf would basically run away from him, disappearing in some cases.

So Bilbo decided to try to distract himself, focusing on anything else. Bilbo had begun to spend more time with Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, and Nori. But it felt like people were hiding things from him again. Keeping secrets. He decided to test his theory.

“Where’s Thorin today?” Bilbo asked one afternoon, trying to sound casual as Fíli, Kíli and himself were playing a game of cards.

Fíli glanced at his brother before shrugging. “Busy with… things, I imagine.”

“What kind of things?” Bilbo muttered, frowning as he looked up from his cards. That was the same answer Dwalin and Nori had given him the day before. 

Kíli looked to his brother and they both looked a little uncomfortable as Bilbo watched them. “Uh…wouldn’t know. I believe it’s your turn Bilbo.” Kíli said and offered a fake smile.

It most certainly was not. Bilbo tisked and nodded.

Another time, Óin had come to check on him, the healer was still prodding Bilbo’s bandages, “You’re healing fine, lad. I’d say you can take all the stitches out soon.”

Bilbo nodded, he tried to be subtle as he asked. “Do you know what Thorin is up to, have you seen him?”

Óin didn’t look up from his work. “Oh, …I’m sure he’s around lad.” was all he said.

Frustration began to claw at Bilbo’s insides. Later that day Bilbo caught Gandalf. He wasn’t meant to be up but his patience was nonexistent at this point. “Gandalf, do you know what Thorin is doing?.”

Gandalf looked at him, his face frustratingly neutral. “I’m sure Thorin is occupied with important matters, Bilbo.”

“Important my left foot! What is so important for him to ignore me,” Bilbo pressed, he threw his hands up in frustration. “He hasn’t visited at all! Runs away at any attempt I make to talk to him!”

Gandalf’s gaze softened. “Give him time, my dear boy. Thorin will come around and tell you in his own time.” With that, the wizard walked away, leaving Bilbo feeling more frustrated than ever.

Days turned into weeks, and Bilbo’s frustration simmered, his thoughts circling endlessly around one question: Why? Why was Thorin avoiding him? What had he done wrong? 

He replayed their conversations over and over in his head, searching for some clue, some indication of what had gone wrong, but found nothing.

That’s when he felt something snap, weeks of worn patience. The excuses about “kingly duties” didn’t add up, ‘we are in Rivendell. What kind of kingly tasks could Thorin possibly be doing’ 

He had had enough.

Ignoring Óin’s warnings to take it easy once again, Bilbo threw off his blanket and on his cloak then marched out of his room, a determined fire lit inside his stomach. His injuries be damned, he needed answers.

The sunlight was filtering through the trees of Rivendell, casting soft patterns of gold across the path, but Bilbo did not pay it mind. His attention was fixed solely on the figure he spotted in the distance. 

Thorin was there, standing in the gardens, he seemed to be speaking with a raven, one Bilbo hadn’t seen before. It was much bigger than Hugin was, Bilbo vaguely wondered if Raven‘s really could get through the storm that settled over the mountains. 

That thought was swiftly pushed away. As if sensing Bilbo, Thorin’s head jerked up, and for a split second, panic flickered in the king’s eyes. He turned to leave but Bilbo would not let him.

“Thorin—THORIN OAKENSHIELD, DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAY FROM ME!” Bilbo’s voice rang out, clear and sharp, startling the birds from the trees and causing a few passing Elves to pause before quickly averting their eyes.

Thorin froze mid-step, his broad shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned back to face Bilbo. The raven on his arm tilted its head side to side as Bilbo came closer.

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, his voice low, almost apologetic.

But Bilbo wasn’t in the mood, and he really couldn’t stop himself from snapping at the dwarf. “No,” Bilbo said as he stopped not too far away. “Don’t you ‘Bilbo’ me. You’ve been avoiding me for days, Thorin! And no one will tell me why, at least not the truth! I’ve done nothing wrong- at least, I don’t think I have!” His voice wavered, the frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface.

Thorin opened his mouth as if to respond, but Bilbo wasn’t finished.

“I don’t understand!” Bilbo’s fists clenched at his sides. He threw his hands up and began pacing back and forth. “You came all the way here, risked everything to make sure I was alright. And then what? You disappear? Is that it? Was it just some sort of duty to you, Thorin? A box to tick before you move on to whatever ‘kingly duties’ you’ve been so conveniently busy with?” He scoffed, he turned to face Thorin. He pointed to him aggressively. “We’re in Rivendell! There’s no kingdom here for you to rule!”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade between them. Thorin’s face, for a moment, stirred with a thousand different emotions, but it landed on anger.

Thorin’s brow furrowed and he lifted his arm up dismissing the raven. “Bilbo, it’s not—”

“Then why are you ignoring me?” Bilbo pressed, he couldn’t feel his frustration boiling over inside him. “What have I done? I don’t understand! I’m sorry if I’ve upset you!”

Thorin raised a hand as if to placate him or tell him to stop talking. “You have not-I’m not upset, Bilbo-”

“THEN WHAT?” Bilbo shouted, his voice cracking. “Tell me!”

“If you would let me-!” Thorin growled out angrily.

“NO! No! No more excuses, no more lies!”  He had reached Thorin now, standing right in front of him, he stood on his tippy toes to glare up at him. 

Tears begin welling in his eyes as his dam of emotion he’d had been trying to keep in all these weeks burst, and he fought to keep them from spilling over. 

Thorin’s expression was torn between anger and something softer, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t know whether to reach out or keep his distance.

“What is it?” Bilbo choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “TELL ME! What is so horribly wrong with me that you will not visit me? You came all this way, Thorin, you braved a raging storm to find me, and now you cannot- no, you will not, be in the same room as me for even a moment! Tell me! You insufferable Dwarf!”

Bilbo’s voice broke, dissolving into a sob as angry tears streamed down his cheeks. His whole body shook with anger and sadness and- he didn’t know what and he didn’t care what!

Thorin’s eyes softened as he watched Bilbo crumble, his anger seemingly melting away. “Well?!” Bilbo demanded again, his voice had begun to go hoarse. “SPEAK, DAMN IT! TELL ME!”

Thorin’s face contorted with emotion, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Bilbo froze, the words ringing in the air between them like a thunderclap. He reeled back, shock rooting him to the spot. Bilbo felt a little numb as he stared at Thorin.

Thorin let out a shaky breath and stepped closer, his hands moving to grip Bilbo’s forearms, steadying him-or perhaps anchoring himself.

“I-I am in love with you,” Thorin repeated. “I do not know when it happened, but it did. It was so subtle, I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. When we’re together, I… I forget everything else. For a while, I am not King under the Mountain, not Thorin Oakenshield. I’m just… Thorin. And when I realized what that meant. I felt that, I thought, if I stayed away, it would go away. But it hasn’t. I am in love with you, Bilbo, and I’m sorry. I understand if-”

Thorin’s confession was cut short as Bilbo, driven by he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Bilbo reached up and pulled Thorin into a rough kiss.

Thorin stiffened in surprise, but then melted into the kiss, his arms quickly wrapped around Bilbo. One hand found perches at the back of Bilbo’s head.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together. Bilbo’s cheeks and neck felt incredibly hot “Oh, you insufferable Dwarf,” Bilbo huffed, “You horrible fool. I wish I could hate you.”

Thorin’s lips curved into a small smile, he held Bilbo’s face gently. “But you don’t,” he whispered, his voice rough.

Bilbo shook his head, he couldn’t help as a wet chuckle tumbled out of him. He had to fight tears again, but a different kind. “No,” he whispered back. “No, I don’t.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight between them lifted, and they stood there, Thorin's hands still holding Bilbo's face. Neither spoke, but in that quiet moment, neither needed to.

They had both found exactly where they were meant to be.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

farewell for now

@m4yh4ps @bllbabaggins

but just real quick:

Bilbo: Thorin? Thorin: yes Amrâl? Bilbo: Who was that other raven I saw? Thorin: ah, that is my raven Valka. I have raised her, and her family for many years now. Bilbo: oh! Does she know Hugin? Thorin: I would hope so Kurdel, she is his mother Bilbo: oh! …tell her I think she looks very pretty. [Thorin laughs and nods to Bilbo]

[gamebakers]

Strive for an UNBEATABLE deal on Furi in the Eastern Martial Artists Week! Rider has hacked and slashed the game 90% off, and now Furi joins a collection of intense martial arts games in the fest!

[lordgrimwing]

The Monster #01

[for Glorfindel Week, hosted by @glorfindelweek, Day3, part of the More Mouths Series]

[content warning: blood, graphic violence]

The beast listened to strange voices in the passage outside its cell.

“By the Valar, what is that?”

“One of Sauron’s werewolves?”

It crouched in the back of its cell head cocked toward the heavy door trapping it. With a sniff, it tested the air for the familiar scent of orcs but found only elves. It knew the scent of elves, remembered feasting on elvan flesh when the orcs were done with them. Sinking lower in its corner, it waited for the elves to do more than quickly glance through the barred window in the door. Hunger gnawed at its stomach but it could wait.

“No, look at the eyes, the hair.”

An elf peeked through the window again, dark face and hair popping into view for a moment before retreating again. The beast closed its eyes and laid its head down on its forepaws. If it pretended to be uninterested, asleep, perhaps one would venture inside.

“No, you’re not saying—you’re not saying that’s Lord Glorfindel! Sauron killed him!”

“We don’t know that.”

It listened to the breathing, the shuffling of boots in the passage. 

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“We can’t leave him like this.”

The scrape of metal as the bolt holding the door closed was pulled aside.

It exploded into motion as the elf opened the door to its cage—but too soon. 

The door was large and heavy and the hinges stiff with rust and grime. Pushing it open took great effort and the elf was struggling for every inch of movement when the beast slammed into the other side. The stone walls echoed with the force of the collision and the creature’s infuriated snarling as it caught its prey. 

The elf at the door cried and fell back, trying to get away as a scarred arm thrust through the gap in the door. Blood oozed from the limb, the skin torn off by the rough stones on one side and the sharp edge of the door on the other. Claws grasped his shoulder, slipping under the armor and piercing through the mail like it was cheesecloth. He screamed in pain and terror as the beast jerked him forward, slamming him against the doorframe over and over as it tried to pull him into the cell.

The beast howled when a dirk slashed down into the muscles of its forearm. The second elf had come to the first’s aid. It hadn’t expected that. The orcs were always quick to abandon anyone unlucky enough to fall into its clutches, unwilling to meet a grizzly demise, too.

It tugged the caught elf once more. Driven almost mad by the sweet blood in the air, it bit at nothing, snapping its broken teeth together with brutal force. Between hunger and pain, however, it couldn’t figure out how to get the door open wide enough to drag the elf inside. The bulk of its own body blocking the door from swinging further. 

The second elf yelled in fury as she hacked into its flesh, the blade biting nearly to bone. 

With a final, frustrated scream, it released its would be meal and retreated to the back of the cell, limping on the mutilated limb. Tucked into a corner, bleeding against the wall, it watched the window, weary of the elves’ retribution.

The unwounded elf threw her whole weight into dragging the door closed before the beast recovered and attacked again. The latch screeched as it slid into place, once again locking the threat away.

On either side of the barrier, the elves and the thing-which-once-was-an-elf panted from exertion, shock, and pain. 

“Let’s get to the healers,” the uninjured elf said, helping her fallen companion to his feet.

“We need to tell our captain about this.”

“Healer first, then I’ll report this: who knows what Sauron turned that into. I’m not letting you die from some dark magic.”

The beast listened to footsteps retreat down the passage.

[frankendykes-monster]

There is a popular quote attributed to both Fredric Jameson and Slavoj Žižek arguing that it is “easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.” It is an odd thought to process while watching Rhys Frake-Waterfield’s Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey, a schlocky horror film that reimagines A. A. Milne’s loveable anthropomorphic teddy bear as a hack-and-slash movie monster. Still, it’s something that bubbles through the film’s very existence. Blood and Honey can be understood in a couple of different contexts. Most obviously, it is a transgressive horror film that uses the iconography of beloved childhood figures in a grotesque and unsettling way as a shortcut to cheap thrills. There has been a recent spate of these movies, including The Banana Splits Movie and The Mean One. Later this year, Five Nights at Freddy’s will adapt the beloved video game, riffing on the same basic idea of cute childish things turned violent. However, Blood and Honey stands apart from these contemporaries. It isn’t a pastiche like Five Nights at Freddy’s, it isn’t a licensed production like The Banana Splits Movie, and it’s not an unauthorized parody like The Mean One. It is an adaptation of A. A. Milne’s beloved children’s classic, made possible by the fact that Winnie the Pooh has entered the public domain. Nobody has to pay to use the character, and no authority has the power to veto what can be done with him. Copyright law is an interesting thing. The Copyright Act of 1790 enshrined legal protection of an author’s right to their work for “the term of fourteen years from the recording the title thereof in the clerk’s office.” However, that period of protection would be expanded over the ensuing centuries. With the Copyright Term Extension Act, arriving in 1998, that protection was extended to the life of the author plus another seven decades. Of course, the reality is that copyright doesn’t always protect the artists. It often exists to enrich corporate entities. Much of the most lucrative intellectual property on the planet is controlled by faceless companies that ruthlessly exploit the artistry of their employees and contractors. Comic book movies are a billion-dollar industry, but key creative figures have to fundraise to pay medical bills, like Bill Mantlo. Creators like Jack Kirby or Bill Finger never got to enjoy the spoils of their labor.

Indeed, these extensions to the period of copyright were largely driven by companies holding these intellectual property rights. The Copyright Term Extension Act was known in some circles as the “Mickey Mouse Protection Act,” reflecting Disney’s proactive lobbying in favor of the extension. Incidentally, Disney paid $350 million to buy Winnie the Pooh from the A. A. Milne estate in March 2001. It is ruthless capitalism, rooted in these companies’ desires to control the public imagination. The Copyright Term Extension Act ensured that no media entered the public domain between 1998 and 2019. As much as writers like Grant Morrison might argue that superheroes are the modern equivalent to the classic Greek gods, this ignores the fact that mythology is a public resource. The classic myths were not owned by large corporations that could use the threat of legal action to pull Vera Drew’s The People’s Joker from the Toronto International Film Festival after a single screening. This makes Blood and Honey a pointed act of transgression. The film comes from writer and director Rhys Frake-Waterfield, best known as a producer of low-rent schlock like Dinosaur Hotel and Dragon Fury. Realizing that A. A. Milne’s beloved childhood fable was entering the public domain, Frake-Waterfield sensed an opportunity. With a budget of under $100,000, he set out to make a quick cash-in slasher movie. Of course, Frake-Waterfield could only draw from elements included in the earliest stories. He had to avoid the iconic material added to the mythos in the years that followed. “Only the 1926 version is in the public domain, so those were the only elements I could incorporate,” Frake-Waterfield admitted. “Other parts like Poohsticks, and Tigger, and Pooh’s red shirt — those aren’t elements I can use at the moment because they’re the copyright of Disney and that would get me in a lot of trouble.” Blood and Honey is a bad movie. It is lazy, uninspired, and boring. It has no sense of character, theme, or basic structure. It’s a lazily reskinned version of Halloween or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre from a filmmaker who spent a significant portion of the press tour passive-aggressively complaining about how Halloween Ends took “itself too seriously.” There is nothing of any merit here, nothing to hold the audience’s interest. The film’s 84-minute runtime lasts several lifetimes. That said, there is a germ of an interesting idea in the central concept, which has an adult Christopher Robin (Nikolai Leon) returning to the childhood fantasy that he abandoned to go to college. He discovers that his childhood did not take well to this abandonment. Winnie the Pooh (Craig David Dowsett), now a feral and mute beast, chains Christopher up and tortures him. He whips the adult with Eeyore’s tail. However, Winnie the Pooh cannot kill Christopher. He must possess him.

It is too much to suggest that this plot is mirrored in the story of the film’s actual protagonist and decoy final girl, Maria (Maria Taylor). Maria is taking a trip into the country with her girlfriends, recovering from a traumatic experience with a male stalker (Chris Cordell). When Maria’s friend Lara (Natasha Tosini) spots Pooh lurking around the Airbnb, she assumes that he must be Maria’s stalker. Pooh’s psychopathic sidekick, Piglet, is also played by Cordell, to underscore this connection. At times, Blood and Honey seems like it might be a clever and subversive commentary on the way in which so much modern pop culture infantilizes its audience. Christopher has tried to grow up and leave his childhood behind, even planning to marry his fiancée Mary (Paula Coiz), but his childhood won’t leave him behind. Pooh needs Christopher, his validation and his love. However, that relationship is not as innocent as it appears framed through childhood memory. Many modern adults would empathize with this idea, as their childhood nostalgia is weaponized against them by streaming services and studios. Even if one lives in a remote cabin in the woods, franchises like Star Wars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, He-Man, and X-Men: The Animated Series are inescapable. Entertainment that was once aimed at children is now aimed at the adults those children became. There is no indication that these corporations are ever going to stop. Of course, this gives Blood and Honey too much credit, suggesting that it can be read as a subversive commentary on the role that this sort of intellectual property plays in cultural stagnation. In reality, Blood and Honey is an illustration of just how pervasive this model of capitalism can be. Frake-Waterfield isn’t using Pooh to make a point about the cynical exploitation of these cultural touchstones. He is using it as a cynical exploitation of these cultural touchstones. Blood and Honey grossed nearly $5 million at the global box office, and one suspects that it performed very well on home media and streaming. There is already a sequel in the works with “five times the budget.” More than that, Frake-Waterfield has made a conscious effort to expand the brand into a shared universe built around similar properties. He will direct Peter Pan’s Neverland Nightmare and will produce Bambi: The Reckoning, which was sold to international distributors at Cannes this year. Frake-Waterfield doesn’t just have his eye on these sequels and spin-offs. He dreams of a bigger childhood horror shared universe. “The idea is that we’re going to try and imagine they’re all in the same world, so we can have crossovers,” he boasted. “People have been messaging saying they really want to see Bambi versus Pooh.” It’s incredibly ruthless and cynical. It is a transparent attempt to build a massive multimedia franchise from elements that the production team don’t have to pay for.

In theory, the liberation of these iconic characters from copyright should herald encourage creativity and ingenuity. It should allow for more projects like The People’s Joker or Apocalypse Pooh. There are certainly artists engaged in that sort of work. It also provides the opportunity for commentary and engagement with the modern media landscape. Last Week Tonight with John Oliver is already salivating at the satirical potential of Mickey Mouse’s entry into the public domain. Blood and Honey suggests an alternative to these creative uses of works leaving corporate purview. Blood and Honey is just as cynical and ruthless in its exploitation of this intellectual property as Disney had been. Frake-Waterfield is clearly aspiring to exploit these properties in exactly the same way that Disney did, hoping to create a scale model of their production machine. It is a trickle-down shared universe, a reheat of a familiar meal constructed from pre-digested ingredients. For all the moral handwringing about how the movie “ruined people’s childhoods,” this is the real horror of Blood and Honey. It suggests the limits of creative imagination, an inability to conceive of an alternative to the model of intellectual property management that defines so much contemporary pop culture. The roots of this mode of thinking run so deep that it seems impossible to imagine any alternative. The public domain doesn’t free this intellectual property from endless exploitation, it just means somebody else gets to take a turn. If the rights to Winnie the Pooh are entering the public domain, why wouldn’t somebody use the brand recognition to make a quick and easy buck? After all, the business logic behind Blood and Honey is the same logic behind something like The Little Mermaid or Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania. People recognize the brand, and that will make it easier to sell. Even this seemingly subversive and rebellious act is just a cheaper, more cynical, and less competent iteration of the larger processes that drive modern media. All things considered, the cynicism of Blood and Honey is a small price to pay for the possibility of more work like The People’s Joker. More than that, if it helps to undermine or shatter the brand loyalty that these corporations have cultivated among generations of movie-goers, it may serve some purpose. Still, it’s disheartening to watch Blood and Honey, realizing that these modes of exploitation are so deeply ingrained in pop culture that they perpetuate even in the public domain. Even as the end of copyright becomes a reality, the end of this intellectual property churn remains beyond imagination. Oh bother.

[skyward-floored]

Pretty please may I hear what you’re working on for HDW for the wip ask thingy? 👀

A couple things actually! I've been working on all sorts of things (I have so many ideas for this AU ough). I have a wip with Tune and a battle (hehe), some things with Link and Volga... a bunch of stuff in the past, actually, that I've been working on on and off, but just haven't gotten around to finishing.

But I'm sure you'd prefer I share some angst, so here's a bit from the Tune one :)

"M-Mask," Tune chokes out, and the younger hero's face turns even more frantic.

"Tune, don't move, okay, stay right here," Mask says, words all jumbled together. "I'll cover you, but you have to put pressure on it, you've got to--"

More clattering reaches him through the dizzy whirl of pain and shock, and he watches detachedly as Mask whirls around, hacking at the hordes of skeletons yet again. The monsters must sense his vulnerability, and they press in, beady eyes glaring, bony fingers grasping for Mask so they can drag him down too.

Mask slashes at them, but Tune can't follow the battle. His vision is stuck watching blood pour freely down his tunic, and he almost misses it when the skeletons press in too close, and Mask palms the most powerful of the masks he owns.

There might be another shout, but it's drowned out by the roar in his ears. Suddenly Mask is gone, replaced by an imposing figure with moonlight-soaked hair and eyes blazing with fury.

[shady-scripter]

Bloodied Halls

Bonds of a Lineage pt.2

Wild swung the bright blue blade with a new fury. The red of their bodysuits were starting to match the red of their blood. Their sickles littered the floor, wielded only by corpses now.

Wild tried not to think of the hardcore washing his tunic would need. Not to mention the Old Man’s white tunic, already stained with the dirt and grime of the prison-fortress that Cia had them stuck in.

He chopped another head off, dodged another sickle, and blocked another arrow. He found himself pushed against the Old Man’s back again, his grunt the only indication that it was him. He didn’t have time to put on his armor before the onslaught happened. He was as bare as he could be now. That armor was his shield. With a claymore like the biggoron sword, there is no way to have both a shield and the sword out.

“You still doing alright over there?” Wild yelled over the chaos.

“What, you still think I’m too old for this?” Wild could hear the grin in his voice.

“No! It must feel weird fighting without your armor!” Wild sliced another Yiga’s chest open, their intestines peaked through the cut.

“I actually feel a lot lighter without it.” Time sliced a Yiga clean in half, their torso disconnected from their lower half. “Duck.” Wild obeyed without question, squatting to the ground. Time threw himself into a spin attack, chopping down everything and everyone in a five foot radius.

Wild sprung back up and used his blade to deflect an arrow ready to embed itself into Time’s back. Wild let out a battle cry as he skewered a Yiga. His blade burst into blinding blue shards.

Wild cursed and bashed an oncoming Yiga with his shield. The next one got an elbow to their kidney, they fell to their knees and another stomped on their head. Wild let a brief laugh escape him as he watched the fate of his enemy.

In his periphery, Wild saw a Yiga disappear and was quick to jump to the side. The Yiga reappeared above him, but descended slowly. Wild felt a grin pull at his face.

He took out his slate and swiped until he reached his weapon tab. A knight’s claymore, a soldier’s halbert, a guardian axe, a royal claymore, and a royal broadsword. He tapped on his royal broadsword and got to cutting.

Time soon continued regularly. More slashing and more blood. Time’s grunts became louder and the Yiga kept coming. As easy as these pests were easy to cut down, they were still getting tired. Their limbs were working against them and straining against the hilt of their blades.

“Old Man!” Wild felt the panic begin to set in. There was no end in sight. How long had he been hacking recklessly? How long did he have left? Had the adrenaline worn off?

“I know!” Time’s voice came out as a sort of growl, his teeth definitely bared.

The tip of a sickle had just barely caught Wild’s side, but the gash was far worse than it needed to be. Wild grit his teeth together and chopped the Yiga down.

“Shit!” Wild dropped his shield and used his hand to try and put pressure on his wound. He felt tears prickle in his eyes. He didn’t know if it was because of the pain or because he knew how this fight would inevitably end.

It would end in two bodies wasted on some unknown ground in some unknown place. His brothers would never know what happened to him, he’d never see Zelda or Sidon or Purah or Robbie or Teba or Riju or Yunobo or Tulin or Hudson or-

“You are all useless! What the heck guys!” Wild knew that voice. “I have others to deal with and Lord Ghirahim just wanted this one thing from us! I just-”

“That is enough, you waste of space!” He didn’t know that voice though. The Yiga stepped back and Wild was actually able to see the carnage the two had created. Bodies laid upon bodies upon bodies, the blood running like rivers down a mountain. He couldn’t help but try to step away. He had bumped against Time once more.

“Get them out! I’ll just do it myself.” Just like that, the Yiga disappeared. Not even Kohga stayed behind.

Time shoved Wild back and Wild fell on his butt. Time stood in front of Wild with his claymore pointed out. Wild could hear the other man’s breathing. It was just as rapid as his own. Wild fought his body to stand up once more but was met with resistance. When he finally stood, their new opponent spawned a sword out of nowhere.

“Truely, how am I to be whimsical when working with someone as incompetent as he?” The gray man shook his head and flipped his hair. Wild knew his hair was far more majestic than this want-to-be’s.

“What was it again? Gary or something?” Wild saw Gary’s eye twitch at Time’s words. “You were in the War of Eras, right?”

“Fuck kinda villain name is Gary?” Wild tried to hold in his laugh. Time chuckled, his eyes never left their new opponent.

Gary groaned in frustration. “My name is not Gary, you absolute imbecile!” Gary spawned what looked to be knives. “My name is Ghirahim, and you’d think you’d be kinder to me considering you’re at my mercy!” Ghirahim lunged forward and Time blocked it swiftly.

“Champion, offense!” Time blocked another assault. Wild quickly tapped at his slate. His royal bow materialized into his hand and his arrows filled his quiver.

Time grunted as he swung his blade down. Ghirahim jumped back to dodge the blow. He pointed to Time and his small daggers raced at the man.

Wild backflipped and drew his bow. Time slowed once more and Wild shot all twelve of the daggers. Wild’s feet touched the ground and Time charged forward, Ghirahim met him half way. Wild’s bow stayed drawn, waiting for a time to release the bow’s tension.

Ghirahim spawned more daggers. One by one, they flew at Time. Time met each dagger with his blade in a spin attack. At the end, Wild could see the fatigue in Time’s eyes. Ghirahim must’ve seen it too. The demon dashed forward, a tight grin on his face.

Time fell to one knee, the biggoron sword keeping him from laying himself out.

Wild let his arrows fly as he moved to Time. Ghirahim knocked his arrows away like it was nothing. He would get to Time first.

The Rancher’s gonna want his rascal back, the words echoed in his mind even as an explosion blasted him backwards. Wild felt fire lick at his body when he landed. Wild coughed and patted out any flames that still tried to destroy his already torn clothes. He made the mistake of patting his side. Wild let out a strangled yelp, the gash making itself known once more.

“Old Man?” Wild felt his tears finally fall. “Link!”

“I’m here!” Wild jerked his hand away before Time even emerged from the smoke. “It’s just me. We’ll be ok.”

“What…” Wild looked over to the burning bodies of Yiga soldiers.

“It’s called Din’s Fire, I can explain it later! I still have a little magic left, we need to go now!” Time pulled Wild to his feet. Wild leaned against Time. Time brought his hand closer to his face. “You’re…damn it all!”

Time’s hand began to glow green.

“No you don’t!” Ghirahim broke from the smoke, daggers shooting through behind him. Wild heard Time gasp. Just as quickly as the explosion happened, Time’s hand turned blue and a sapphire crystal surrounded the two as Time held Wild close. “You coward!” The tings of Ghirahim’s blades hitting the crystal grew frantic.

“Champion?” Time’s voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” He combed his fingers through Wild’s hair. “My magic is depleting quickly. I’ll hold it for as long as I can but I’ll likely pass out in the end.”

The Champion embraced Time tightly, feeling his own eyes start to close. Wild nodded against Time’s chest and let his eyes close.

“I love you, Link.”

The assault on the crystal had stopped long before the two passed out.