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ap-kinda-lit · 10 months

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AU where Kagome is Kikyo's sister in the feudal era and they're both priestesses (though Kagome is not as trained or high in ranking as Kikyo).

Inuyasha and Kikyo still meet and they develop a friendship and maybe a budding relationship (Kikyo does develop feelings for him). But since Inuyasha has been following Kikyo to get a chance at stealing the Shikon Jewel, he then meets Kagome.

Of course they bicker and Inuyasha notes she's nothing like Kikyo, but at the same time they still develop a bond...maybe one much stronger than that between Inuyasha and Kikyo. Kagome's differences from Kikyo actually endear Inuyasha. She's emotional, open, and accepting and understanding. She loves Inuyasha as himself, all parts of him, human and demon and all. Inuyasha feels at peace, even joyful, with Kagome, and he is overwhelmed by the affection and protectiveness he feels so strongly and quickly for her. They trust strongly, they care deeply, and they love each other greatly.

Kikyo notices everything. Maybe it's for the best, she admits. But inside...it's another story. One part of her, the protective sister and priestess part, is reluctant towards her dear sister getting involved with a half-demon. The other part, one that is more personal and selfish, is jealous of her sister (since Kikyo herself is in love with Inuyasha too) and hurt by Inuyasha and Kagome's flourishing romance. It's another reminder of what she cannot have, of the life she's destined for. The final nail in the coffin. Kikyo of course tries to suppress these feelings and carry on, but as she ignores them they fester. Her turmoil has weakened her powers and ultimately make her a target.

During all this, she's been caring for the wounded bandit Onigumo, who desperately desires her. When demons offer to give him a new body, he readily accepts. Naraku is born and bent on getting rid of Kikyo and taking the Shikon Jewel. Even though Kikyo has weakened, she's still too strong for him. But he knows what's hindering her: her fondness for the half demon Inuyasha, her conflicting emotions over Kagome and Inuyasha, and her secret resentment and frustration over her life. It's ample for him to take advantage of, to make corrupting the jewel and taking the powerful miko down. And, of course, there's the love between the half demon and the second place priestess. All in all, Naraku is licking his chops over what he could do with the situation already bestowed upon him...

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crescent-dreams · 11 months

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Now and Forever Yours

Our first collab as a server! We each took a chapter and interpreted the prompt in our own way. They can be read as a continuation of each other or completely separate. We even had some of our wonderful artists join us! Enjoy!

Summary: A series of ficlets, doodles and sketches, paintings, mood boards, etc., all revolving around SessKag and their evolution as a couple in the feudal era.

Welcome icon by @mrfeenysmustache

The Beginning by @moon-ion

The Gift by @chiaztolite

The Kiss by @cat-zchen

Human Kissing by @spiralofdragon (art!)

The Dream by @mmmecca

The Book Nook by @sereia1313

Morning Glory by @mrfeenysmustache (with art!)

In My Arms by @yumanichan (art!)

Healthy Communication by @mynightshining

A Big Change by @hallow777

Family Moment by @valgreys (art!)

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greengrasscaps · 2 years

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𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐀

𝙸𝙽𝚄𝚈𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙰: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙲𝚃

· . · . · .· . · . · . · .· . · . · . · .· . · . · . · .· . · . · . · .· . · . · . · .· . · . · . · .· .

#kagura #kagura inuyasha #kagura icons #naraku #inuyasha #inuyasha kanketsu hen #inuyasha the final act #inuyasha icons #rumiko takahashi #feudal era

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urstrulymel · 10 months

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#inuyasha #kagome #sango #miroku #feudal era #inuyasha a feudal fairy tale

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aerin-of-the-isles · 4 months

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Chapter 2 of An Interfering Monk is up.

Sango is stuck with Miroku, but is she ready to accept their new relationship. Is she supposed to feel connected to him?

Kagome and Inu Yasha need to make their way home. Can the hanyou restrain his instincts when it comes to his lovely new miko? Not likely!

#inukag #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha #mirsan #higurashi kagome #miroku #sango #alternate universe #feudal era

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venus-vermillion01 · 1 year

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What’s a plot you’d want to hear on? :)

1: Gojo and Yn meeting finally

2: the backstory to the Mistress of Ryomen who brought your downfall

3: your children Strife and Famine come to the rescue

4: Round two: Ryomen vs Yn : Domain Expansion

#sukuna #gojo #ryomen x reader #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen sukuna #jjk #queen of curses #historical au #feudal era #modern au #sukuna x oc #jjksukuna x reader historical au queen of curses sukuna x curse reader jjkjjk ryomenjjk angstjujutsu kaisen ryomenryomen x readersukunasukun

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ashitakaxsan · 1 year

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The Escalation.

This scene takes place near Azusa mountain,where the Inuyasha team fights against Naraku.And time for Kikyo’s running out...(: Not that Sunrise made Brilliant adaptation of Kikyo,they made her for a long time seem as a “cruel,nasty bitch”.I am a Kikyo stan

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dippietheham · 1 year

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He sat under the trees, staring out across the lake. The sun beams danced across his vision, licks of fire rippling across the water surface. He breathed in deep as the heat scored whatever skin was exposed.

Even in this peaceful dell, he didn't bother to take off his armour. A short stop and he would carry on to the next village.

Life was simple for him. He was a wandering swordsman, lowest of the low amongst the warriors of the land. He refused to pledge his loyalty to a noble, for none would allow him freedom to stop to help those who had no one to turn to. And no noble would look kindly to him stopping just to admire the scenery.

So he fought alone, honing his craft in quiet dells like these. He had to. Any warrior band which found him alone could deal with him as they saw fit, and some had tried to show him that the loner's way was a way of death. And indeed, he had to prove them right with his blade, often despite being overwhelmed.

With that thought, he drew his trusty blade from its scabbard, and drew a whetstone from his pack. As he watched the sun playing through the trees, his hands gently yet firmly went through his familiar routine of sharpening his best friend in the world.

All was good. For now.

#swordsman #writing ideas #fantasy #fiction #writing #short prompt #picture prompt #Feudal #feudal era

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heynikkiyousofine · 1 year

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Sneak Peek at a new InuKag fic, “A New Beginning”

“Atarashii Asu” = A New Beginning in Japanese

Summary: Kagome has returned to the Feudal Era for good. As she settles into her new life with Inuyasha, an evil worse than Naraku arrives and wants to make sure all demonkind comes to an end, threatening to destroy the life she’s worked so hard to create.

If you had asked her what it was like going back five hundred years to the past, Kagome would’ve said that it felt like coming home after a long trip. So when she passed through a final time, she embraced it, encouraging that familiar feeling to fill her as her feet landed in the dirt. This is real, right? It has to be. Refusing to think about the heartache that would come if it weren’t, she began her climb into the past.

Gripping the vines, she paused her ascent when a tiny butterfly flittered past, the lavender wings glittering early afternoon sun. Smiling to herself, she allowed it to pass before continuing, freezing completely when a familiar aura came rushing towards her. Heart racing, she clung to the side of the Bone Eater’s Well as a shadow appeared. Taking a deep breath, Kagome looked up.

The first thing she saw was an outstretched hand, each finger with a pointed claw and knew exactly whose it belonged to. Inuyasha. Without another thought, she slid her right hand into his, the hanyou pulling her up and out into the sunshine. Staring into the same golden orbs that filled her dreams every night for the last three years, she swallowed the lump in her throat and said the first thing that came to mind.

“Inuyasha, I’m so sorry. Were you waiting here for me?”

“Kagome, you idiot.” He answered, his hands trembling. “What have you been doing all this time?”

Of course, he would say that. Before she could answer, she was yanked forward, Inuyasha’s arms wrapping around her in a tight hug, her head resting on his shoulder. His warmth surrounded her, Kagome coming to the conclusion that this wasn’t a dream after all. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, but her smile never wavered as she returned his embrace. Inuyasha, you waited for me. She remained in his arms, even as footsteps approached, soft gasps filling the clearing.

**Be on the lookout for the first chapter coming at the end of this month, along with some fabulous art by the amazing @heavenin--hell!**

#inukag #wip #new fic #its canon #canon divergent au #feudal era #mirsan #a new beginning

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antzywew · 1 year

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THE LEGEND OF ST. ANTHONY WAS A TRAGIC TALE.

And this legend started simply so: of a man and his walking cane in the cathedral foyer. This man was not unreasonably sized, in fact, one would say quite average. On his Cypress back there sat a medium-sized Sicilian orange, with two beady eyes stitched on.

Once, a young boy attempted to climb the back of this average-looking man, for he too had mistaken it as a plain Cypress standing lone in the narthex. Now, this young boy was the son of a knight, and was accustomed to climbing even the strangest trees. Yet, this was not a familiar tree to the young boy. He gripped onto the scraggly branches of the tree, and attempted to hoist himself up.

The boy was confounded when the tree, instead of allowing the boy to perch upon his branches, took his willowy arm and whacked the boy down. The boy tumbled to the ground, clutching his sides in despair. This tree though, merely blinked twice at the stapling on the ground, and turned the other way.

The orange-man did not spare another glance at the half-hearted attempt of the young boy. His beady eyes, like that of pumpkin seeds, soon found another contender. This time, a small pomegranate.

Here, the young boy on the ground noticed something unfamiliar about the orange-man. As the orange-man paced about the foyer, never once did the sapling see the trunk of the Cypress. Unusually, for the boy had a keen aptitude for observation, the leaves of the tree draped over his lower torso, obscuring all but the roots of the Cypress.

How odd! The boy knew he was the son of a knight, and being the son of knight meant he was privy to the few particular secrets the trees harbored: firstly, trees could not move without the wind; and two: there was no wind to be found inside the cathedral foyer.

The Cypress edged closer to the young pomegranate, his withery boughs grazing over its forehead. The boy rose to a kneeling position, fraught with terror. The older pomegranate beside the smaller was glazen with a smile, but the young boy could not watch.

The pomegranate in the arms of the older burst into tears, and yet both the orange-man and the older let out zealous screeches! Oh, how the young boy panicked. Within an instant, too quick for any to interfere, the boy snatched the metal cross and charged at the Cypress.

Now, the Cypress was a normal man the same way he was average-sized. He was such a normal man that with one swing from the might of the young boy the tree gave way. The trunk of the Cypress stood still, yet the crown of the tree began to tip… and tip… and tip… until the man at last collapsed. How… incredible? The sapling too did not know what to think.

There was a sort of stunned silence, where even the boy stood bemused. The Cypress had never swayed, the onlookers whispered, he had never been bested. He was an ethereal creation, the people once believed many years ago. But still, the eyes of the Cypress merely glazed over before at last the now-tenuous tree was felled.

Now, quite oddly to the young boy, the older pomegranate too began to wail! The tears generously rolled down its face, and the baby in her arms soon joined the fray.

“The Saint! The Saint!” The pomegranate echoed throughout the chamber, a shout so feverish and desperate that it vibrated the narthex, shaking the boy where he stood.

“The Saint! He’s dead!” The woman set the babe down on the windowsill. In a few brash steps, she gripped the collar of the young boy. His clothes, so worn and gritty, ripped under the hands of the older.

Her eyes pooled with tears while her hands shook in distress. The bystanders watched with an agape expression, the hands of which were curled into fists.

The now-enervated boy felt limp in the grasp of the woman, and he too understood that what he had brazenly done had left irreversible consequences. He did not yet know of the false narrative he had dreamed upon, but the emotions that swirled amongst the crowd left little interpretation.

“He must pay! Look what he’s done!” A man pushed his way to the front of the gathered crowd. His face was set into a stern frown, aided by the downturn of his lengthy mustache.

A dreary feeling enclosed the cathedral, especially within the young boy. His mis-matched shoes and torn-up clothes made him look particularly younger, though it had relatively minimal effect on the seething crowd.

The boy’s eyes furiously traveled the expansive room, looking for a savior. All there stood were empty faces and pugnacious promises. This was something else the boy did not know: there was no desire to save a villain from laying in his own bed.

Even so, this fact did not take long for the boy to soon understand. For there was one thing the boy did know due to his aptitude of observation: the incessant beliefs of the people could not be easily changed. The rooster knew the cage of past-comfort was now an indisputable slaughterhouse.

A strong arm yanked the young boy from the woman. He squeezed his eyes closed -- the boy was certain: This was the beginning of his end. He hung his head in shame as the mass dragged him into the town square through the crude force of their rage. The young boy now stood in solidarity, surrounded by a crowd of fanatic observers. They hollered out obscenities, muttered out curses, and spat viciously towards the center, yet the boy stood still.

He could start shivering, or perhaps start weeping, though what else could that bring? His sorrows and regret could not stop the echoing tintinnabulations from ringing through his head. Yet, if the boy sought to raise his head for the most fleeting instant, then he would see the most peculiar thing: the face of the Cypress staring right back at him.

Oh! The Cypress attempted to force his way through the crowd, as if he too had abandoned his principles. His coat hurried to follow him, thrashing against the motion.

“It was but a delusion! I order - let the boy go!” The Saint vehemently proclaimed, shoving the rioting people aside with his walking stick. His head ached of a bruise, glossing over his face from his brow to the curl of his stache. Still, the man continued on, parting the crowd with a perpetual limp in his step.

The crowd stared at this freakish occurrence, their expressions fraught with bewilderment. Be that as it may, the presence of the Saint did not stop their vicious endeavors, for their hands lacked hesitation the same way the tides kept changing. The glass cup brimmed with human anger, and slowly but surely, it began to overfill.

Chants rose into the air like glorious choir songs, pouncing the boy in the center with misery and woe. The wails of the Saint pushing through reached empty ears, and he too soon felt the crowd tightening around him. What was he to do?

It was a moment reminiscent of the previous, where one ambitious woman, to be forever unnamed, struck the boy vigorously across his temple with a battle cry that reverberated amongst the crowd.

The boy, in a scene akin to the felling of the Saint, stumbled for just a moment before crashing to his knees. The stained mask of repentance washed over the boy’s expression, quashing any inkling of childhood piety. The Saint himself joined the boy on the market floor in a desperate attempt for revival. A furious shaking resulted to no avail, for the boy still laid, defeated.

Alas, as the Saint peered down, the eyes of the boy spoke a strange and anguished tale, one that would be later canonized into history. The “Legend of St. Anthony,” they called it, as its whispers still flitter through the streets of the town. There was one important message laden in this unusual tale: the elders never speak of it, but the youngsters always seek it. It is one that the children alone must infer, when tucked neatly into beds side by side. Their eyes and mouths seek the wondrous answer, the unbridled curiosity of youth pushing their parents to reveal the sad truth, but zilch they find.

Yet on the eve of their sixteenth birthday, the child is then herded into the local cemetery, equipped with nothing but a purple hyacinth in their hands. Makeshift signs help guide the youngling through the winding path of gravestones until at last, the trail stops. In front, the child could spot a lone wooden horse. The burial site does not give any indication of its purpose to the child, though the intrigue is more than enough.

The child soon bends down before the wooden creature, their knees digging into the dirt like so many before them. There is an imprint in the dirt, appearing as if it were centuries old. On closer inspection, the horse too has nested itself, with ivory weeds constraining where it stood. The child has now discovered the truth behind the story, and begins, like the others before them, lamenting the sorrow times sowed deep in the past.

A hyacinth slips

through shaky hands

and blurry skies

descending

to where the grass

has grown over

just barely

yet many times over.

Purple light

reflects into the eyes

of a frightened youth

whose lips