#{Vendere Answers

[arcxnumvitae]

A pop tart is a ravioli (Ven)

"Anon" || Unprompted

"Why are you harassing me!?"

[vonlipvig]

me salió una propaganda de not for broadcast en youtube, de la expansión 'live & spooky'? y nada, me acordé de vos jiji <3

EFECTIVAMENTE ESOS SON MIS CHIQUITOS BIEN AHI EL ADVERTISEMENT BUDGET LET'S GOOOOO 📺

[tiredfox64]

Hellooo! First of all, I love your fics, especially Tomas's. They are very entertaining and the way you write is just great ^^

This is more of a question than a request, although you can develop it further if you want.

How would the linkuei trio react to a s/o who says "I hate men... except you"

It came to me out of nowhere and I thought it was funny 🙃

There Are Exceptions

Prior notes: Hehehe I throughly enjoyed writing this. Also I forgot to say this with other people’s requests who gave me compliments but thank you so much for liking my writing! (*´∀｀*)

Pairing: Lin Kuei Bros x Afab reader

Warnings ‼️: Men

Bi-Han

These dim witted, nitwit goobers who serve your husband are too much to handle. All they know how to do is punch and kick. They have no other survival instincts that can save their asses.

It’s so tiring being the one to try to help them with whatever. A woman can only do so much.

You tried teaching them how to sew only for them to say something stupid like it’s a woman’s hobby. Forget about cooking. You have never seen someone screw up scramble eggs so much that it doesn’t even form. How the fuck does it stay watery? And why are you the only one who knows how to fold clothes? Screw steaming out their wrinkles.

Your last straw today came in the nighttime when one of the clansmen came up to you and ask the most stupidest question you have ever heard.

“Uhm, some of the men were telling me that a woman’s period was when she peels her skin every month. Is that true? Cause if it is you hide it well.” This clueless assassin…oh goodness.

You just stared blankly at the young man. It had to be a joke, right? They can’t be that stupid. Actually, you don’t want to know if they are that stupid. You walked away briskly with one thing on your mind and you had to shout it out. The moment you walk into your bedroom you slammed the door shut and screamed,

“I hate men!”

Bi-Han was already in bed, waiting for you to come around. He stared at you with that grumpy expression he always has before folding his arms in front of his chest. A low grumble was being emitted by him.

How can you say you hate men when you are married to one? One that treats you like the queen you are considered you are the grandmaster’s wife. He is also one who pleasures you till you are fully satisfied. Course, it’s more like you have to go on until he is satisfied.

“…except you.”

“Mhm, that’s right. I should be the exception here. I am the grandmaster, I deserve your full respect.” Bi-Han reminded you of his role as if he doesn’t do so every day.

“And you are also my husband,” you walked up to him and placed a kiss on his forehead, “Now would you mind spooning me for tonight.”

“After that outburst, I am unsure if you deserve it.” Now he’s just being petty.

You pouted as you changed into your sleepwear. If Bi-Han looked for at least five seconds he would have caved. But he looked away immediately to prevent himself from changing his decision. You huffed as you slipped into bed. You went on your side and pretended like you didn’t care. You did because you always lost the idgaf war.

“Please, I love you.” You said over your shoulder.

Bi-Han let out a groan before turning over and wrapping his arms around your waist. Haha you win.

You may not like men but you love this man. You like this man because he’s your man.

Kuai Liang

Why does no one think of the logical answer to something?

You go out to the market all the time so you could help feed the Shirai Ryu. It helps lessen responsibilities for your husband. But even this simple task is made difficult and stupid because of some of the venders. More specifically the men.

You asked for watermelon and they hand you plastic containers with the funkiest bits of watermelon. They are discolored and are definitely past their ripeness. Yet they all tell you it’s fine. It’s not fine! It’s not good quality! Why even cut the watermelon in the first place you can do it yourself!

You want some mangos? Well you can’t fucking have any because they don’t got it. Oh what’s that? A BUNCH OF FUCKING MANGOS RIGHT BEHIND THEM! And they tell you that those are honey mangoes you didn’t specifically ask for those. They told you no because they thought you wanted Haden mangoes. Just give the woman a fucking mango!

You’re so over those male venders. They never even help you pack the carts up.

You’re too tired went you get back to the temple. You let everyone else pack the food away without helping out this time. You can’t be bothered. You take your shoes off, step into the temple, and sigh heavily.

“I hate men.” You groaned.

You didn’t realize Kuai Liang was coming up to you to greet you. You looked up and saw his face. He stared blankly with a bit of concern.

“…except you.”

You wanted to make it right so you ran up to him, giving him many kisses and hugging him.

“What has made you so hateful, my love? Did someone at the market bother you?” He asked with concern.

Kuai Liang was not at all mad at what you said. He found it odd which meant there was something wrong. His hands went up to check if maybe it was something physical. He would hate to find out you were hurt while out. What kind of husband would he be if he can’t protect his wife?

“Many people bothered me at the market today. Some people are unfortunate stupid.” You replied.

“Perhaps you can tell me all about it in bed. I’ll make you some tea to help with the stress.” He took your hands as you both walked to the bedroom.

Kuai Liang is the kind of man you need in your life. If only the men at the market had his intelligence. Though you do like being cared for when there is any sign of distress from you. It makes you feel like a princess.

Tomas

To help train the Earthrealm champions is like trying to train a seal, a kangaroo, a bison, and a Komodo dragon to leap at least a meter out of the water. One will succeed, another will jump but not reach it, another one won’t try to jump, and the other will be too busy trying to mate with you.

They are all nice in their own way but Johnny is the worst of them all. You tell him you are happily married and it’s in one ear and out the other. Just because his marriage failed doesn’t mean yours has to.

Kenshi is alright he just has stubborn. He believes it’s nerves that wins fights. If that were true why does he keep failing to you. And when he is not going against you he’s going after Johnny’s throat. You get it, Johnny won’t give back Sento. But now is not the time to bust his ass.

Kung Lao just gets on everyone’s nerves. You have never seen a bunch of monks ready to implode and strangle someone. Don’t forget that you almost lost your head because he flung his hat in the wrong direction. All you got back was a small ‘sorry’ before he took his hat and ran off.

And Raiden…he’s fine. He’s done no wrong.

Yet no matter what you always have to return and help the fools. You give and give and what do you receive? Hell!

You are exhausted when you return home. You don’t talk to anyone you just go straight to your bedroom. You let out a groan the whole time and when the door closes you let that groan become words.

“I hate men.”

Tomas was already waiting for you in the bedroom. He was walking up to you to hug you until he heard those words. He looked concerned and even a little sad.

Well he’s a man, do you hate him? Did he do something wrong? He hopes he didn’t, he doesn’t want an unhappy wife.

Your attitude immediately went away at the sight of Tomas.

“…except you.”

You ran into his arms and hugged him tight. You could never hate a man like Tomas. He is your husband after all. You picked a good one compared to all the other men that you have seen.

“I’m guessing they upset you again.” He asked.

You nodded. The day is already over you don’t feel like talking about every single stupid thing that they did. Tomas understood and hugged you tight.

“Do you want me to beat them up?” He whispered jokingly in your ear.

For once today you laughed. He always manages to bring a smile to your face. You wish you could let him but that would be a bad decision. Though it’s funny to think about. He was just happy to hear that wonderful laugh of yours. It just shows that he’s a good man to you. He can turn a frown upside down and make you see the good in men. Or at least the good in him.

After notes: Can you tell I got pissed off with Kuai Liang’s part? That shits a little too true. Those instacart tik toks be crazy. Here’s a little experience of when I hated men: one didn’t take no for an answer for YEARS. He still can’t take no even from other girls. But most of the men I know are good. Alright enough yip yap I must march on. Adiós!

[chiara-klara-claire]

funny ways to say “in the middle of nowhere”

Collected funny ones under this post + contributions to this one (my selection). Most involve ass(holes), have god/the devil, (nonsense) names of villages…

🇩🇪German: in the ass of the world/ the pasture- am Arsch der Welt/der Weide; where Fox and Hare bid each other good night - Wo sich Fuchs und Hase Gute Nacht sagen (old-fashioned), where the dead dog lays - Da liegt der tote Hund, in Buxtehude/ (Kuh)kaff, in der Pampa, in Timbuktu

🇮🇹Italian: in assland - in culonia/culandia, in the wolves’ ass - in culo ai lupi, in the ass of the word - in culo al mondo; 🇫🇷 French in the asshole of the world - dans le trou du cul du monde

🇨🇿Czech: Where foxes bid good night to one another - Kde si lišky dávají dobrou noc

🇩🇰Danish: where the crows turn around - Hvor kragerne vender on Lars diarrheas field/on the field of Lars Shitpants - På lars tyndskids mark

🇳🇴Norwegian: far damn from violence - langt pokker i vold, “huttaheiti” (gibberish)

🇸🇪Swedish: out (there) in the spinach - ute i spenaten,“tjotaheiti” (see above, maybe originally from Tahiti)

🇪🇸in Spain: in the fifth hell/pine tree - En el quinto infierno/pino, where Christ lost the sandal/hat/lighter - Donde Cristo perdió la alpargata/gorra/mechero;

🇲🇽 Mexico: Where the devil farts - Donde el diablo se echa un pedo, and sometimes someone answers: “Y nadie lo escucha” And no one hears

🇹🇼in Taiwan: where birds don't lay eggs and dogs don't shit - 鳥不生蛋狗不拉屎的地方 

🇵🇱Polish - where crows turn around -  Gdzie wrony zawracają, where dogs bark from their ass - gdzie psy dupami szczekają 🐶; Where the devil says goodnight - Gdzie diabeł mówi dobranoc, where (black) pepper grows - gdzie pieprz rośnie, (mostly in the context of running as far away as possible or chasing someone away)

🇦🇺Australia: woop woop or "in the middle of woop woop' 🇳🇿 NZ: wop wops

🇻🇳Vietnamese: holy forests, poisonous waters - rừng thiêng nước độc / where mountain passes are windy/cloudy and winds swirl in vortexes - đèo heo hút gió or đèo mây hút gió (rarely used)

🇨🇦🇫🇷 Québéc: Saint clin clin des meuhs meuhs (actual village name…)

🇸🇦 Arabic (Saudi dialect): in the castle of wadren في مقلاع وادرين (an old castle in the middle of desert)

🇮🇱 in Israel: Israel: at the end of the world, take a turn left - סוף העולם שמאלה

🇫🇮Finnish: behind God’s back - jumalan selän takana, in the devil’s ass - helvetin perseessä;

🇬🇷 Greek: at the devil’s horn - Στου διαόλου το κέρατο;

🇧🇬 Bulgarian: on the ass of geography - На гъза на географията

🇮🇸 Icelandic Out in an asshole - úti í rassgati;

🇧🇷 in Brazil: in cock’s house - na casa do caralho;

🇦🇷 in Argentina: in the pussy of the parrot- en la concha de la lora 🦜;

🇪🇪 Estonian: in the bear's ass - karuperses 🐻

🇺🇸 USA: bumfuck Egypt

🇧🇪 in Belgium (Dutch): in a farmer’s asscrack - in een boerengat

🇺🇦 Ukrainian: in the devil's swamps в чорта на кулічках,  where the crow won't carry bones куди ворон кісток не заносить

[lockes-woods]

Kinktober '24 Day 2

Request: I got one. Shanks x shy afab reader Public sex, creampie, foreplay all that jazz and whatever else you think would be good

WARNING: Warning: exhibition, creampie, annoying/mean Shanks at times, public sex, foreplay, oral (reader receiving)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shanks, stop,” you said, your tone embodying the same voice one would use to scold a dog. You slapped his hand away as he reached over to give your ass a quick squeeze, your face felt like it was on fire from embarrassment. 52 minutes. It hadn’t even been an hour since you had met at the café in town. For at least 45 of those minutes, he’s been touching you in some way; his hand glued to your body.

“I’m sorry baby, you just look so good,” he said, playing with the excess ribbon that hung from the bow tying your corset together at your bust. He twirled the ribbon around his finger, knowing that a quick tug at the right angle would untie the bow and leave him with easy access to your body. You gave him a warning look. Outside of the fact that dresses aren’t the most practical option on a ship, you never wore them because it made getting access to you way too easy for Shanks. It was just too dangerous, especially with how his impulse control was when you were involved. He crowded you against a brick wall in between shops; the streets for the most part deserted. Venders had just begun to set up in the promenade you two had been walking around.

“Can I have a kiss?” he asked, smirking down at you. Despite everything you’ve been through he almost always asked for permission. Being the sole object of his focus would never not fluster you, but today you tried to stay strong.

“Shanks we were just together last night til early this morning.” You pointed out, hoping it may satiate him, but knowing nothing outside of you would.

“But tressure, I had to leave our room before I was done with you,” he started, “Plus you’re never as loud on the ship as you are when we stay somewhere else.”

“S-Shanks,” you tried to argue as his right hand tilted your chin up to force eye contact, “Fuck,” you whined as he started to stroke your cheek affectionately. You took a deep breath to attempt to center yourself before responding.

“But I can’t even remember how many times we were together last night, plus you only had to leave for the ship, an hour before our check-out time.” You tried to rationalize before adding one final comment, “I’m starting to get sore,”

“Just one kiss, tressure” he promised, “then I’ll keep my hand to myself unit we’re back in our quarters.”

“O-okay,” you responded both answering him and reassuring yourself at the same time. The smirk never left his face as you pressed up on your toes to be taller as he leaned down to meet you halfway. A moan immediately ripped out of you as he bit your lip, not enough to break the skin but, just enough to surprise you. He immediately pressed his tongue into your mouth, pinning you more firmly against the wall. You couldn’t help but whine as he deepened the kiss, totally powerless to his strength, height, and build. You were stuck under his ministration as your head became more and more clouded with lust. Your eyes snapped open when you felt something press up against your stomach. You didn’t even have to look down to confirm your suspicions. You gently pressed your hand against Shanks’ chest, he let out a disappointed groan as he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shanks,” you whined as he gently grinded against you.

“Yes, my love?” he asked a look of faux innocence masking the smirk that was normally plastered on his face.

“Fuck,” you whined. You could feel yourself begin to get desperate, even though he had been inside of you less than three hours prior. It didn’t matter how often you would be together; you had begun to assimilate to his appetite. You could feel yourself getting wet, despite already being sore from his love and attention the day before.

“You said, just a kiss,” you replied, trying to ignore his advances and stay strong.

“It was just a kiss baby,” he said, mask beginning to slip, “I’ll wait til we get back to our quarters before I’ll have you again.”

“B-but,” you tried to start, but couldn’t continue because of your embarrassment.

“What is it baby?” he said, smiling slowly morphing into a smirk.

“You’re hard,” you finally relented, looking up into his eyes.

“Oh, I can wait baby. That is unless you don’t want your well-known captain walking around boner.” He said, falling back into his mischievous look; mask now gone.

“I-I” you tried to start, now truly feeling lost in the sea of embarrassment. You couldn’t help being shy, in the same way Shanks couldn’t help being a mischievous bastard.

“You?” he prompted, allowing you time to collect your thoughts.

“I can-do you want help?” you asked, looking down at his bulge. He gently tipped your chin up.

“You know I’ll always take what ever my sweet treasure has to offers,” He started, “Don’t you love?” You nod in response, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. You took one last deep breath before replying.

“Where-where would we go?” You just managed to get out. The streets had just begun to fill with early birds.

“Trust me?” Shanks asked,

“Always,” you reply in a heartbeat. He gave your forehead one last peck before looking down at you with a genuine smile. He lightly took his hand in yours after he had adjusted himself to the best of his ability. He led you down an alley in the direction of the marina. You had managed to get closer than you would have thought, stopping within a freight center; where goods were being traded, stored, and bought. There were crates surrounding you both. The piles that had two or more creates fully hid Shanks from view which wasn’t a small feat. You knew you were close to the docks as you smelled the seawater misting at the other end of the storage yard. Shanks covered your mouth with his hand preemptively, before pressing you firmly against a crate so that your stomach was touching it.

“I’m going to move my hand now love, try your best to be quiet, don’t want to draw attention to us, do you?” You nodded in response. He had you bent slightly with your hands pressed against the crate for support. You bit your lip to contain a whine as he hiked up your dress, exposing your ruined panties that he promptly slipped off. You widened your stance expecting him to tease your lower lips with his cock, before pushing in for a quicky. You couldn’t hold back the surprised gasp you let out when instead of his cock, you felt his tongue running over the seem of your pussy. You leaned more heavily against the crate in from of you as he ate you out from behind.

Your annoyance at being set up by him dissolved into lust as he began to lap at your clit while simultaneously fingering your tight cunt. You leaned firmly with your dominant arm while you held the palm of your other arm firmly against your mouth. After a minute of Shanks’ effort, you no longer need to worry about you being the reason you got caught. Every slurp, suction, and thrust of his fingers loudly echoed through the yard. The noises only encouraged his movements. As he ate you out with the same vigor he had when you two were alone in your quarters. You were close.

“Captain,” you whined just below your normal speaking volume, “I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop,”

Shanks blatantly ignored your warning; instead doubling down. His fingers sped up as he focused in on sucking on your clit. His only warning of the orgasm before it cut through you was the slight tremble of your legs locking up on either side of his head, keeping him in place. Your moans were thankfully muffled by your hand. You collapsed against the crate in the wake of your orgasm. Hypersensitive to Shanks’ movements as he eased his thick fingers out of your cunt. He let you recover for a moment before he gently pulled you off the crate, before pressing your back into it. Essentially trapping you between him and the create. Your mind was still hazy as you heard the telltale rusting of fabric as Shanks adjusted his clothing to free his cock. He waited until your eyes came back to focus, holding eye contact with his gleaming red eyes.

“Ready, Love?” he asked stroking your cheek.

“Yes,” you answered desperate for his cock. It was days like this that it became unclear who was a bad influence on whom. He kissed you to stifle your moan as he pushed in. He was a bit faster to start, knowing you were already partially stretched out from the events of the night before, and from the orgasm he had just granted you. Your lips stayed connected as he sped up, so overwhelmed with his pulsing cock that he no longer cared who could potentially hear or see you. Well him more than you, as he crowded your image with his body from any potential wandering eyes. He groaned as your pussy grasped him so tight it felt like you were trying to push him out. He only sped up again determined to cum with you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling away from the kiss, resting his forehead against you.

“I’m gonna cum treasure, Fuck,” he started as you buried your face into his neck, “Where do you want me?”

A whine escaped you as he gently tugged you away from his neck momentarily.

“Love,” he prompted.

“I-In me please,” you begged also turning the corner into your own orgasm. You two shared a sloppy kiss as Shanks pulled out one last time before slamming back in as hard as he could, a bruising grip from his hand on your hip. You stayed like that for a moment basking in each other’s presence before the reality of your situation hit you. You immediately pulled back away from his lips, embarrassment rising in your cheeks as you felt hot shame on the back of your neck. You tried to pull your hips, but his grip wouldn’t budge.

“Love, you have to let go, someone’s going to find us”, you whined, anxiety clear in your voice. He let out a delayed nod, only now coming down from his high. He pressed a comforting kiss to your forehead as he eased out of you, letting your skirt fall back to its place slightly below your knees. He pulled back, readjusting himself as he gazed down at you mischievously.

“What did you do?” you asked him, knowing that nothing good ever came from that look.

“If you haven’t noticed yet, it can’t be that big of a deal.” He answered vaguely before taking your hand and exiting the storage yard. You got two steps before you began to feel his release slowly slide down your upper thigh. Your eyes widened in realization.

“S-Shanks give me back my panties,” you said in a low voice.

“What these?” he asked, holding the black underwear in a way only you could see it before he shoved it into his pocket.

“S-Shanks,” you whined, “I'm already starting to leak.”

“Huh, sounds like you better get back to the Red Force. Wouldn’t want anyone to see how much of a slut you are.” He responded with a smirk, letting go of your hand as he walked away from you. Unlike normal he didn’t break pace to accommodate your shorter legs. You felt almost lightheaded from the level of embarrassment you felt as you trailed quickly behind your brat of a captain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MASTERLIST

A/N: Hope you enjoyed ^-^ I'm glad I was able to maintain and only go over a little bit. Tomorrow's prompt is a little harder and will most likely be on the longer side. I will have a kinktober master list posted later today. Hope you're all doing well!

-Locke

[tomhardymyking]

Did you know that...?

𝗧𝗼𝗺 was devoted to rap 🎤! He started when he was 14-15 years old, looking for his place in the music industry, even getting a deal with a record label 😮 The songs were written by him, he worked with 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒚-winning producers, he recorded many things but they were never presented. And he put music aside when he started his career as an actor, because, according to himself in an interview 13 years ago: “because I come from a nice middle-class neighborhood it was a very hard sell, and I wasn't very good!” Hence his answer when asked this in an interview in 2021 🤭

However, currently, and as many already know, 𝗧𝗼𝗺 is rapping under a secret name 😏, and a few days ago it was announced that, he will release an album? Or at least new songs! 👏🏻💓

⠀⠀⠀⠀

¿Sabías que...?

¡𝗧𝗼𝗺 se dedicó al rap 🎤! Comenzó a los 14-15 años, buscando su lugar en la industria musical, obteniendo incluso un trato con una discográfica 😮 Las canciones eran escritas por él, trabajó con productores ganadores de 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒚𝒔, grabó muchas cosas pero nunca fueron presentadas. Y dejó la música a un lado cuando empezó su carrera como actor, por, según él mismo en una entrevista hace 13 años: “como vengo de un buen vecindario de clase media, era difícil de vender, ¡y no era muy bueno!” De ahí su respuesta cuando le preguntaron esto en una entrevista en 2021 🤭

Sin embargo, actualmente, y como muchos ya saben, 𝗧𝗼𝗺 está rapeando bajo un nombre secreto 😏, y hace unos días se anunció que, ¿lanzará un álbum? ¡O al menos nuevas canciones! 👏🏻💓

⠀⠀

[botanicallyinclinednerd]

FreeNoodles interactions season 1:

Episode 0:

In their first interaction of the show, and indeed Pigsys very first appearance, Pigsy gets enraged at the idea of anyone getting free food at his establishment, after all "I'm not running a charity here, Tang!" Tang pushes Pigsy back (on his nose) with a smile, claiming that he pays with wisdom. Pigsy is not impressed and yells in Tang's face again, calling him a freeloader

Pigsy turns around to see Tang eating a bowl of noodles and raises a spoon threateningly. It cuts to the outside of the shop shaking as Pigsy presumably chases Tang, calling him a coward and demanding payment

Tang begs Pigsy to watch where he's driving, so he doesn't kill them all

Tang wishes to turn back because of the danger and Pigsy pushes his head away and tells him to "Shut it you big baby"

Tang pointedly leans into Pigsy's space while complimenting Sandy's hospitality and commenting that "certain noodle shop owners could learn a lot from your hospitality, Sandy"

When they think MK is dead, Pigsy is in denial, and Tang says softly, "There's nothing we could do." Pigsy gets mad and marches over to Tang, grabbing him by the scarf and insisting that he (Pigsy) should have been able to do something to protect MK. Tang doesn't react, simply looking miserable, before saying that they should protect people so MK's sacrifice wasn't in vain. The fight seems to have left Pigsy

Episode 1

Pigsy shows up all mad that he's been working while everyone has just been lying around, and while tang at first looks intimidated, he calls him "Piggy" and that he should relax, time off never hurt anyone

Pigsy steps on Tang's shoulder to yell at Mei and MK, and Tang looks unimpressed up until the moment Pigsy shoves Tangs's head into his bowl of noodles while yelling at the kids.

Episode 4

Pigsy and Tang are at the market together. Tang is unimpressed by carrot quality, Pigsy brags about being a quality chef.

Tang suggests they keep going, and skip this vender (who turns out to be Spider Queen) but when he turns to look at where Pigsy had been, he is gone. He is alarmed when he sees Pigsy talking to her, and looks annoyed by Pigsy's words. He is confused by her "excellent wares" being nothing edible looking, and asks if Pigsy is blind

Tang grabs Pigsy's arm as he goes to follow Spider Queen, and starts to tell him he has a bad feeling. Pigsy shakes him off and begs him to let him have this. Tang nervously follows as Pigsy enters the tent

Pigsy and Tang are wrapped up in the same web, neither looking happy about this situation. Tang makes a comment about Pigsy entering the shop, and Pigsy weakly tries to defend himself, she claimed she had ingredients! And Tang responds with a shake of his head, "I don't think that's what you were looking for, Pigsy"

Tang and Pigsy share a frightened look after Spider Queen informs them that they will be her dinner

Tang struggles, trying and failing to get free. He reassures Pigsy that he's sure MK will be there soon to rescue them. When he tells Spider Queen that he's "kinda like a father figure" to MK, Pigsy sighs and kinda rolls his eyes.

Tang tells Pigsy not to worry, that MK is too smart to fall for one of Spider Queen's traps

Pigsy apologizes to Tang for getting them into this situation, and that they'll "need to work together to get out of it." Tang agrees, determined. They both start struggling to get free, wiggling enough to drop to the ground where they manage to cut theirselves free on Mei's sword

This moment of Tang and Pigsy holding each other tightly as they fall

Tang slumps over Pigsy after they sucessfully escape Spider Queen and are in the boat

Episode 5

A picture that the demons had for whatever reason. I have many questions and no answers

Episode 6

Pigsy and Tang watch the race together on the TV from the noodle shop

Pigsy and Tang hug in celebration when Mei and MK win the race

Episode 10

Tang grabs noodles from Pigsy's bowl while saying, "You were done with this..." Pigsy yells at Tang while pulling his bowl away

[witchthewriter]

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑾𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝑰𝒕 𝑻𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

Paid story for @sardonic-the-writer.  Word Count: 1k Warnings: walkers, killing, killing walkers... mentions of violence, otherwise it’s pretty fluffy

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ        

The air was warm outside, Rick and the others were hard at work, sweating and grunting. They were building traps for Walkers. Animal traps really, but it was better than wasting bullets or having them get too close.

  You had just come back from helping Glenn on a run. Supplies had been low for a while, so it was time for you him to go back out. However, you had gotten close to the soft-hearted man. His friendliness wasn’t a ploy, or a mask. Glenn was genuine.

   So, it was hard to leave his side. Because everyone else seemed too … off … or rather, mysterious. Like they had shadows and deep regrets that didn’t make them trustworthy in their core. Except for Glenn and … Daryl.

  You had a crush on the red neck ever since you came with Rick’s group to Hershel’s farm.

 Your fondness started when you realised just how much passion he had for trying to find Sophia. It was admirable.

  But your beginnings weren’t kind.

Eight, your German Shephard ran the dirt road back to the farm, barking happily as he saw Daryl. They too didn’t have a very good beginning.

   The old factory had been run down for years before the time of the Walkers. And being homeless before that made it easy to survive in this new world. It had been your home for a year; sleeping in a hammock, eating out of canned soup and at times, stealing from venders. Eight had always been a good companion. A good look out, and an even better fighter.

   When Rick’s group had found you, it was his decision to take you with them. Shane and Daryl were firmly against it, while Glenn, T-Dogg and the rest were in the green.

  And that’s how you came to be here. The farm wasn’t a bad place to be, a hundred times better than the factory. One of your favourite things was watching Eight run around the open fields, his tongue flapping, tail wagging. It was one of the things that made both you and Daryl smile. Although, whenever someone noticed Daryl smiling his instant response was to drop it.

     “Find anything good?” Maggie came up beside you, throwing the pack over her shoulder and lugging it into the house. You and Glenn followed, each carrying your own bags of plunder.

  “We found a few knives, a packet of cigarettes, dog food, for Shane –“ You interjected, and Glenn snorted in response.

 The floorboards creaked as you walked up the steps, and the front door squeaked in greeting. These were one of the few noises you had gotten used to; everything else made you jump.

    Unloading on the wooden kitchen table, you put everything into piles. Important, and then the rest. And then subcategories because you couldn’t help yourself. It was one of your autistic traits. The others didn’t mind, not one bit.

 Maggie started putting the cans away, while Glenn put the bags back where they usually went. Everything had to go back to its usual place. In case of emergencies – and just plain curtesy.

  You sat back and started taking inventory when the door swung open.

   “Hey Glenn we got a lot more than wha-“

You stopped talking as soon as you saw who it was. Not Glenn. But your greasy-haired crush, Mr Dixon.

  “Good run,” he stated, filing through the packets of bandages, bottles of pills and rubbing alcohol. 

“Sure was,” you said in a casual voice, pretending that your heart wasn’t thumping erratically.

   “Any Walkers?” you stole a glance at Daryl and his eyes flickered towards you, but only for a second.

“A few,” you answered remembering that you hadn’t looked in the mirror after coming back. There had been three of them; strays that were caught in different parts of the pharmacy. But with your knife and Glenn’s own weapon, you were fine.

  “You got some…here-“ Daryl went and wet a tea towel and came back over to you. Suspiciously, Maggie and Glenn hadn’t come back inside.

He knelt down beside you and wiped away dark Walker blood from your neck and face, making sure not to be too rough.

   “Must’a caught your cheek on something, It’s pretty scratched up.” You couldn’t make eye contact with him, especially not with the proximity. Being so close, you could smell the dirt, earth and sweat that emanated from Daryl. You didn’t mind it.

“Didn’t feel anything,” you replied lightly, shocked at his tenderness.

 Daryl had been slowly getting used to you, and after five months he had accepted you were part of the group, as well as Eight. His prior impressions had faded away until new ones emerged; you weren’t uptight like he thought you were, just quiet. Reserved. You kept to yourself. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like your sarcastic remarks.

 The dining room was quiet as Daryl wiped away the remaining blood and fixed up your cut. He’d been listening to Hershel talk to Lori about how to heal and had started to know his way around mending bodies. 

  “Thank you,” your words came out barely above a whisper.

In a gruff voice he replied, “you’re ah, welcome.”

  Getting up, he threw the tea towel in the dirty laundry and left the house, you could hear the front door swing shut.

 You shook your head in confusion, mere months ago he wanted you dead. He had been adamant that you weren’t an asset. That taking you on would be a liability. And now his hands were so tender as they cleaned your face. You could still feel the warm pressure, easing the headache that you didn’t know was coming on.

  Then you heard a voice whistled from behind you, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Daryl … be so nice,” Glenn’s smirk made you blush. Well, blush even harder. Your cheeks already felt hot to the touch.

   “He was just…I-“ You couldn’t explain it because you didn’t really understand it fully yourself. Was it just politeness? Friendship? An olive branch?  

 Or was it something…more?

[mania-sama]

rule #33 - pyre

Rule #33 - Pyre - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Jujutsu Kaisen ❧ Pairing: Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi & Fushiguro Tsumiki & Gojo Satoru ❧ Tags: veteran! gojo, gojo has ptsd, parental! gojo, no curses au, ptsd, heavy angst, implied/referenced child abuse, russian ballet references, gojo adopted the fushiguros, flashbacks ❧ Summary: Gojo Satoru, a young, decorated veteran, is petrified of fireworks. ❧ Word Count: 2,721 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 27 December 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 31: PTSD ❧ Previous Day ❧ Masterlist

Festivals are, generally speaking, the worst times of the year.

Gojo isn’t a killjoy. He enjoys the colors decorating the streets and adorning the yukatas, kimonos, or whichever traditional clothes are being worn in accordance with the celebration just like everybody else. Venders add extra spices and seasonings to their food, the prices are lowered, and the overall atmosphere buzzes with childish joy.

And, despite his best attempt to keep up his indifferent exterior, young Megumi’s eyes light up when Gojo informs him of the special occasion. Toji’s children love festivals like the rest of civilian Japan. Excitement is rare to see in a child like Megumi, so he always arranges for someone to take him and Tsumiki out to experience the fun in Tokyo.

Instead of spending time with Toji’s little goblins that he’s doing his damn best to raise into decent human beings, he sits in the tiniest closet in his penthouse with thick sound-proof headphones to maximize the noise-canceling effect. He brings a weighted blanket to drape over his body so he won’t have to feel any reverberations, either. It has the added use of making him feel secure and grounded.

It isn’t the principle of missing out on the festival, it’s having to answer Tsumiki’s imploring question, “Why can’t you take us to the festival?” with a flippant laugh and a lie. He wants nothing more than to lie on the grass or stand in the streets and watch the dazzling fireworks with them.  But as soon as the first fireworks explode, followed by smaller pops and shattered lights, he thinks that the dirt and grass shards are hiding landmines, or that snipers are blowing off his comrades' heads from the broken-glass buildings. The streets are empty save for the scared civilians holding automatic rifles and enemy soldiers with orders to leave no one alive.

Gojo can’t go to festivals. He can’t listen to the sound of fireworks in his own home without diving under his kitchen table and plugging his nose to hide his panting breaths. Experience has taught him to stay in his closet and keep his headphones and blanket on, no matter how his heart breaks as the children’s faces pull into resignation when he denies them yet another festival.

He is normally a very observant person. He’d been so ever since he was a child, but having been trained to be a soldier since he could walk, it didn’t really mean much regarding innate ability. In any case, he kept good track of the days, months, and years. He prefers to ignore schedules entirely and operate solely on a feel-good basis, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t perfectly aware of the exact time it is at any given moment. It’s a system of behavior he can’t rewrite, unfortunately.

Except in the odd case — when he was without food and water in the Gobi desert, when he mourned the death of his best friend, or when both of his children ran a hundred and three-degree fevers for an illness he doesn’t know the name of. Time stops operating in his mind. He loses where he is, and all he can focus on is nursing Megumi and Tsumiki back to health.

Gojo shouldn’t have run out of the house to buy medicine and stockpile their favorite foods. He knows he shouldn’t have. Logic would reason that he would call or text a friend to bring him what he needs and pay them back later. But Satoru isn’t a Gojo for nothing.

He is the youngest decorated veteran of the last century. He doesn’t rely on other people, because he is the strongest. He only calls for help from his friends for the sake of the children, not for himself. Children should always be put before him.

The best officer of the Japanese military can certainly handle an emergency supply run in a safe environment for two sick children. The store isn’t even that far away. He’s in a rush, yes, but it’s simple work. He’s accomplished much more in half the time.

He notices the people in bright yukatas but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Whatever event is going on, he doesn’t care for. He can view it from the balcony of his penthouse if it's something really important. He runs into the store, nearly breaks his card in his hurry to pay, and walks out with the image of his — Toji’s — children quickening his strides. Pushing past the gathered crowds of dressed-up people, Gojo picks up on a faint whisper of excitement. It causes his step to falter, only for a second. He doesn’t even fully stop.

An even fainter whizzing sound fills the vast space between him and the children. The sky explodes in shattered lights.

It’s a festival. He knows this. But when he looks around, where his feet are carrying him behind the closest building on autopilot, when crouches to the ground and covers his mouth and plugs his nose, he isn’t exactly sure. He’s not sure that the thick concrete support beam is ready to crumble as a part of the dilapidated city from bombs, guns, and missiles. He’s not sure that those gasps out there are from the spray of civilians and soldiers falling to automatic rifles and suicide bombers.

He holds the paper bags in his hands, shaking, feeling a medicine bottle between his fingers. It’s for Megumi and Tsumiki. This he knows. He should know. Yet the guns keep firing, and he is the commander of his unit. He needs to be out there, guiding his men through the kill zone of a Middle Eastern conflict Japan isn’t officially a part of. But then, where is his gun? Where are any of his weapons?

He focuses on the ground and the paper bags holding chips and medicine. Chips and medicine. His hands are trembling. A Gojo’s hands don’t shake. He’s been trained to hold a gun since he could grab objects, and he learned how to perfectly weave in and out of a sniper’s scope by the time he was ten years old. This is no different. It shouldn’t be any different.

He closes his eyes as the guns tear into his men. Why can’t he get back out there? The palm of his hand presses against his teeth, and his back hunches in on itself. He’s crumbling to the ground, even though he is Gojo Satoru, the strongest of Japan, the best of his MOS. The chips in the bag crumble in his hands, and people are dying . His rifle has been lost, somewhere in the river he crossed to get into the kill zone, probably. His knives were sticking out of the poor children he had to kill, for there were bombs strapped to their chests and weapons too big for their hands. His other handguns were given to his unit as they had lost theirs to the river as well. 

He is Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t need a weapon to survive.

Yet. His knees are on the ground and the medicine for his sick and injured soldiers isn’t getting to their proper place in time. He clutches a hand to his hair and wills himself to move, but the pops have him put in place. Panting breaths escape out of his shaking hands, and his heart pounds so hard he fears it’ll break his chest. Fear. He’ll admit it. He’s afraid. But he can’t be afraid. He hasn’t been afraid since his mother and father beat all of the fear out of him and introduced him to the kill zone at the ripe age of twelve. He knows conflict. He knows guns. He doesn’t know fear.

But fear knows him.

Closer, much closer than his dying unit, he hears the soft pull of a stringed instrument. It's an odd mixture of a guitar and violin, and its sound is stunted in fragmented half-seconds. He’s never heard this in the military before. His unit has had talent with instruments, but this is something else entirely.

Another instrument is introduced, a piano, he thinks. It’s high-pitched, laying oddly yet beautifully over the original instrument. The song is unmistakable now. Tchaikovsky’s The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker. He doesn’t know the play intimately, but he has seen one or two ballets in local performances.

He settles against the concrete beam and listens to the music. It plays over the crowd, though he can’t afford to stop listening for them at all. If they grow quiet, then they’re all dead, or they’ve moved out of the area without him. Either way, Gojo’s escape is going to be messy and long. But he’s Gojo Satoru. If he can get off the ground and stop weeping and running and shaking like—

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy fades out, and Coda plays next. It’s a little more intense, but it runs in and through his ears. It’s so unfamiliar with the kill zone. He’s never heard ballet music in desolated cities. If he hears music, it’s usually the local music in whichever country he’s in or when he’s at base with a mixture of United States military, allied infantry, and Japanese Special Force soldiers, playing music with those languages in it. In general, they usually have words, whether he can understand them or not notwithstanding.

But this, this is new.

He doesn’t know how or why someone would be playing Tchiakolvsky at this time. It doesn’t make sense, and he dares to pry open his eyes. His paper bags are clenched in his hands, but the contents have spilled out onto the ground. Medicine for his soldiers, chips for food. Not practical, but they make do with what they have. He’s eaten bugs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.

Not on the battlefield, but as training when he was a child. If he had to survive off of nothing but the land, he could do it.

The Gobi desert doesn’t have anything but sand and poisonous animals. So much for that invaluable lesson.

The ground beneath him is concrete, and he dares to look up. Outside gathered is a mass of people in bright yukatas . The Russian ballet has come to an end, and Gojo hears the beginnings of Swan Lake . It’s a comfortable tune, but it will turn intense inevitably. Oddly, he doesn’t find it as disconcerting as it’s supposed to make the listener feel. Satoru imagines the black swan, but the dancer turns away from him, hiding her dark makeup.

He stares at the crowd for a long time. It’s unfamiliar to the kill zone. None of them are little children with bombs on their chests or adults shooting at him with weapons they don’t know how to handle. Somewhere in the distance, in the buildings, someone must be aiming for the crowd, to ruin the festival. He’s seen it happen before.

Swan Lake continues, coming close to an end, and a voice accompanies the next song. “You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.”

Gojo doesn’t startle at the voice, but he does turn towards it, and he can’t quite comprehend what he’s looking at.

At one moment, he’s looking at one of his men, and he needs to grab him and bring him down behind the concrete pillar to protect him until they can make a move to safety. At the next, he’s looking at a tall man with Tchaikovsky playing from his phone. He’s looking at Nanami. Nanami in uniform, with a gun instead of a phone. Nanami in a pale blue yukata .

“My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX,” he says, his voice relaxed. “You’re safe.”

Satoru stares at his friend numbly.

“The fireworks will make another round soon. Let’s go back to your penthouse,” Nanami continues. He doesn’t make any moves, though, and a new song from a ballet he doesn’t know filters through the speakers of Nanami’s phone. He thinks. Gojo isn’t sure.

Nanami repeats his early statement. My name is Nanami Kento. Not an enemy soldier, though they did fight together at one time. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. That explains the yukatas and flashing billboards. It’s 20XX. When was Toji killed in battle? When was Geto? You’re safe.

My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.

Russian ballets don’t play in the kill zone.

Satoru turns away from Nanami and shakily collects the medicine and chips that had slipped out of his paper bags, along with the sunglasses that had slipped off his face. He struggles to remember why he has them in the first place. It most certainly has something to do with Toji and children, but he isn’t quite sure how those two add together. Toji is most certainly dead. He knows this with certainty. Children die around him left and right.

Unless it’s about Toji’s children. Gojo looks at Nanami, and as one of his only surviving friends from the battlefield, he says shakily, “I promised to take care of Toji’s kids.”

Nanami doesn’t reply to him directly, yet Satoru takes it as an affirmative. “We need to go back to your penthouse before the fireworks start again.”

The Russian ballets don’t stop playing even as they push through the crowd with Gojo’s hands covering his ears. He can barely hear it over the sounds of the crowd and his blocked eardrums, but it’s there nonetheless. He focuses on what he can sense close to him — the paper bags, Nanami’s back, the safe ground beneath his feet, and the violins and pianos. 

They make it to the apartment, and Nanami stops in front of the gated back entry. “I don’t live here,” he states simply. That means Gojo lives here. If Satoru has the key, then he lives here.

It’s in his pocket, and he unlocks the gate. They walk in and go in the elevator, not the stairs. Stairs. Too many houses, too many stairs and floors to clear.

“My name is…” Nanami drones on to completion. “You’re safe.”

You’re safe.

The elevator dings, and he doesn’t flinch. The ballet filters through the cracks of his fingers, and the paper bags feel heavy in his hands. He’s carried deadweight bodies a hundred times heavier than the feather-light weight of the paper bags, yet he struggles anyway.

They stand in front of the door to his penthouse. Gojo unlocks it, but Nanami waves a hand for him to stop. “Wait here,” he says, and Satoru complies. He’s Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t comply with anyone but himself. He’s the strongest, the best officer of his MOS.

He does anyway, because inside this penthouse —

“We’re going to play the quiet game. Whoever wins gets to go on a spa day with Satoru.”

— are his children, and they are the most important children in the whole world. His children. His children.

Megumi and Tsumiki.

They’re lying on the couches in the living room. Nanami guides Gojo past them, but he manages to spare them a glance, and he sees Tsumiki’s red-colored face peering worriedly at him. He wants to say something to them, but now they’re being fired at and there’s no more time for any words other than directions to take cover.

His hands are still covering his ears when the pop is followed by so many more. But Nanami has him in the closet, and his sound-proof headphones are on, and the weighted blanket is covering him head-to-toe.

He doesn’t technically hear any more of the gunshot-fireworks. He sits in his closet like he’s hiding from an Iraqi unit outnumbering him fifteen to one and figuring out the best way to take them down and make it back to his unit alive. The medicine and chips have been taken from him, and he squeezes his weighted blanket between his palms.

The light bulb burns overhead. His jackets and small winter coats hang beside him like bodies.

He’s the best officer the Japanese military had ever seen, who retired after his third four-year contract ended.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest of his MOS, who trained for combat since he could walk and enlisted illegally at sixteen, can’t take his kids out to a goddamn fireworks festival by himself.

Gojo Satoru hunches and sobs into his blanket.

[helloescapist]

To Wish Upon a Lantern | Shota Aizawa

Word Count: 1357

Setting: Shota Aizawa/Eraserhead x gn!reader [pining]

Content Warnings: none really, minor suggestive because I can't behave myself.

Summary: a sweet moment releasing a lantern for Mid-Autumn festival with Shota Aizawa.

The night settled into intense shades of lapis lazuli plunged into passionate hues of indigo, touched upon fervid plums. Luminous stars that glistened upon the night sky, beckoned the hushed reminder of distant worlds and celestial bodies untouchable by man. The distant jostle of festival music a mere hum carried across the breeze. Whispered the reminder of the festivities only short voyage away, the rare request of an interlude together having drawn you from booths. The touch of his elbow against yours as he ushered you away from the crowds, from venders peddling their wares, and children in cheer.

The jostle of cheer and drums replaced by the hammering of your heart now inter tangled over the crash of waves against the beach. Shadows that grazed one another, nudging the hammer of your heart. The soothing touch of his hand grazed upon your shoulder. Dark eyes that embodied the vast entity of space, hinted upon black sapphires that traced the sky above, imparting no wards into the silence of the night. The scintillating glow of the moon illuminating his stoic features. The mid-autumn moon offering the rare opportunity to his features in the confidante of the hour. The discoloration of his scars varied amongst several shades; the mark carved into his cheek bone having earned company in the past two years. Thick luscious waves of cocoa locks twirled at the highs of his cheek. The mass of his hair combed back to the best of his abilities. Secured by a ponytail that captivated your heart, concealed his unruly mane. The glimpse of his neck offered by the reveal of his collar. Far more than enough to thrill your features, and whisper prayers to the gods that the night would not reveal the quiver of your heart. Stubble that traced the definition of his jawline, the sharp lines of his eyelashes that could slash your resolve if only he pressed. How you wished he would venture. Bedroom eyes posed and lethal, crumble your façade, and vacated your sense. Trembling beneath the seductive imagery of his dark yukata against delicate ivory skin. The hushed yawn stifled against the back of his hand before resting in the folds of his collar. The touch of taunt muscles wary from fatigue. The movement, the reminder of your circumstances shooing away unsavory thoughts that through the depths of the night, and weaved together lust and yearning. Concerns quick to seize the opportunity to evade your heart, all too aware of the deepening of the bruises beneath his lower lashes. Bid farewell to moonlight trysts, and stilled the hammering of your heart. Aizawa was exhausted. Worn from the duties of Eraserhead, carved from his path, and torn asunder whether to answer the calls of educator, pro-hero, or vigilante. Disaster after devastation, the in balance in this world had long since bared its fangs upon his flesh, and yet, her persevered. Remained steadfast in his ideals, defended his convictions, and remained loyal to his classmates, an unknown name amongst the general population willing to throw his life away without hesitation.  The quiet of the scenery beckoning him, urged Shota to utilize your shoulder if only as a means to rest upon in the ambience of the waves. His husky voice, warm and sultry as it vibrated against your ear. Hummed appreciation for your willingness to accept his burdens if only for the moment. Oblivious to the way it afflicted your heart. Cooed the shiver down your spine, persuaded you to lean into his touch. The flutter of his eyelashes, the touch of his breath against your neck as he breathed in the chill of the night, and savored the scent of your body against his. Comforted, and soothed, as though a child who relied upon another to hush the horrors of the past, to provide distraction for those to come. If only for the one night.

                If only for tonight.

                “There,” Shota’s voice spoke before offering a low growl that vibrated against his Adam’s apple. Revealed his discontent of the contort of your body, daring to pull from his at the draw of his voice. Shuddered at the sudden way the words had practically petted the back of your neck, unable to admit the indignant coo that near threatened to escape your lips. The whisper of his voice in your ear, making you suddenly aware of the intimate prospects that fumbled through your brain all too aware of the press of his chest against your back. Joy that sparked through your yukata, a moth to the flame drawn in by the prospect of intrigue. Shota’s arms threaded around your middle, drawing you into him. Beckoned you to remain still. The close press of fabric, slipped from shoulders and tucked. Thin. Very little separating the graze of his flesh against your skin. Your response curious, allowing you only to avert your eyes under his intense press. Warmed your cheeks, taunted your senses. Betrayed dormant desires as absent minded as the way he held your form to his own. The mix of vanilla that danced with a citric note whispered sweet notes into your heart, Aizawa’s scent touched upon your fingertips drawing your attention.

                The callous of his fingers, wrappings that coiled around the digits of his hands drawn to the direction. Reprimanded yourself for deluding a tender moment with an old friend with perverted daydreams as your eyes followed his guidance, ignoring the pounding of your heart.

                The vivid hush of night that had spread across the sky, shy hues now elicited to life. Celestial bodies painted across the night hours. Their brilliance reflected upon the ripples of the sea below. Hummed distant memories of the year that had passed, touched upon fond recollections of the time you had been gifted alongside Eraserhead’s side. As though a spirit guided to the heavens, caught amongst the breeze; a delicate paper lantern ascended to the sky. Its solidarity quick to draw company. The prayers and wishes of festival goers weaved into every lantern. Desires and hopes etched into their siding, the flame elicited intended to carry their wishes to the heavens above. Warm, and tender. Gentle. Thousands that grew by the moment, a small lantern no longer along amongst the dark night. The warm sigh that tickled against your neck, and the press of arms that remained at your side. His hold tender against your frame, careful of your size difference.

                The melancholy that threatened to rob the joy of the moment from your pores. Your fingers betraying your conscious, revealed the depths of your anxieties. The uncertainty that clung to the back of your mind regardless of how you wished it away. The fear--- an adult of your age all too aware that prayers…. Often go unanswered. Clung to the touch of wood between your fingers, a lantern—your hopes clutched between your small fingers. The tremble of your knuckles threatening to grow white, and splintered wood against the pads of your fingers. Your response defiant to the flicker of the flame. Unable to relinquish your prayers to the night. To the risk of rejection. Horrified that the rejection of your hopes… would mean to witness the fall of Eraserhead, to become acquainted with his absence, ignorant of the press of his form against yours, and to endure cold nights as a permanent reminder he would never return home. To never know more. The doubts that shook your heart, whispered anxieties to the pit of your stomach was only soothed by the warmth of his breath, warm and reassuring against your neck. Delicate in the touch of his calloused fingers, careful to gently unfold your fingers from the lantern’s frame.

                Shota’s fingers intertwined between your owns. If only to remind you that life still resided within his bones. The flicker of the flame ascended from your reach. The cutesy motif of a cat the pro-hero had etched into one side, oblivious to the scribble of your hand writing. Urged prayers, hummed into your heart, into your soul.

                Your wishes carried to the heavens.

[arcxnumvitae]

“How often do you think of the Roman Empire?” (Ven-Lucia // tiktok trends flying in 😂)

@lunarxdaydream || Unprompted

"Mm, maybe twice a week. Three times if I have a caesar salad. Why?"

[asherloki]

Cloud spotting

Bbc Sherlock

Fluff

It was a bright breezy day. The sky was quite clear as well. It looked as if it was an oil painting done on a canvas, the clouds were floating and the sky was absolutely blue. Sherlock played his violin, a new tune, rather joyous one that he composed for a week and I sat by the table doing my work. I always prefer to listen to music while I'm working, and Sherlock's violin can barely have any competition. And after a few minutes his bow hit the final string. After playing his instrument he looked outside the sky, his eyes expressed well enough how much he was pleased with the weather "hmmm, pleasent isn't it". He muttered.

I lifted my head from my laptop and got up, "let me see" I said walking towards him.

We both stood by the window and watched the clouds floating in the sky. It's something utterly simple, yet effectively pleasent.

That image just popped an idea so dear and personal to me "Have you ever played cloud spotting?" I asked.

He gave a confused glance at me, yet ofcourse he could deduce looking at me how much fascinated I was by the idea "Mm nope" he said, "but that one looks like a cat". He said with a smile pointing to a small fluffy cloud.

"It definitely does, kinda like a dog too". I replied giggling lightly, honestly he'd join into this mad game, I never thought so.

"Yes" he replied and we laughed softly on our own, trying to find more shapes. He was about to get back to his work, as he turned to walk back from the window he saw a small tear drop rolled down my cheek.

Apparently he was baffled, why would someone cry a minute after they laughed, so he asked "Hey, what's wrong?" his voice was filled with concern.

"Oh nothing " I said wiping that tear, obviously the reason was embarrassing, look at him, he can control his emotions the best way possible. And I crying for, perhaps a memory.

"I insist, if something's the matter tell me, we promised to keep no secret." He reminded me the promise we made to eachother. So I had no other way but reveal the reason.

"Don't judge me but When I was a kid, I used to play cloud spotting with my grandparents. I only used to find Pikachu in every cloud, after they died I never played it again, and I just... recalled it so...". I replied, kept looking outside. I knew he isn't good at words, he didn't know what ti say, but his actions speaks louder. Sherlock looked at me with a sympathetic look in his eyes and then he looked at the clouds saying, "you think we can find some more Pikachu in them?".

I looked at him and smiled at his question, ofcourse he knows how to make me smile so I spotted a cloud which definitely didn't look anywhere close to any varient of Pikachu but yet I said, "look, that one does looks a little alike it no?".

"Oh yes it does" he said smiling. He too could see it did not. After a few minutes of random ramblings we both were about to resume to our works until I spotted a balloon vender, "look a balloon vender." I called out, balloons have been fascinating me since I was a child and still haven't gotten over it.

"Oh yeah" he said unbothered, looking at the vendor outside.

"My mum still buys me balloon you know". I said out of nowhere, with him it feels like I can share anything. Hearing this I saw a soft smile curving to his lips, "would you like me to buy you one?".

I turned around to face him with a smile "Well husband, I wouldn't mind".

"Which one" he asked looking at the balloons that the vendor was carrying.

"Pink one please". I said because the pink one was adorable to me.

"Hey excuse me" He said and ran downstairs. I watched him from the window getting me a pink balloon. Then he came and gave it to me, "here you go". And handed me my balloon

"Thanks Mr Holmes." I answered, yet my emotions just felt like storm inside me. I didn't know what and how I felt.

"You're welcome" he said kissing my forehead softly. "I love the child that's still inside you" he said with a comforting smile.

"Do you think you can give me the love that I've been due?" I asked , I was way too emotional with all the things that he did for me.

"Perhaps I can, as you bring me my early youth" he answered smiling then leaning down to kiss my lips. That's how we are I believe, that's how we saved eachother.

[emeraldhazeart]

for your farm sim ask game! 🍅🍍 (for the festival question, pick from any of the games! or if that's too broad, animal parade?)

Thank you so much for the ask 💚

From my Farming Sim Ask Game

Below the cut, because I can't give short answers to these questions 😅

🍅 (Tomato) - Favourite and least favourite festival?

I always enjoy the Animal Festivals in these games. It's just so rewarding to see all your hard work paying off. I really miss them in games that don't have them (like AWL and Stardew Valley).

The Animal Parade Animal Festival is particularly great because you've got the Livestock Contest, the Pet Contest and the Horse Race all in one, plus sales venders and a silly photo stand. I love it when they give us more than just the main festival activity to do!

For least favourite, I'm actually going to choose a non AP festival - the Pumpkin Festival in FoMT/SI etc annoys me, because the child characters (and others) come to you that day. Which isn't that bad, but it means I have to hang around, not just the farm, but close to my farmhouse all day to see them.

The reason the Pumpkin Festival is more annoying to me than, say, White Day, is because it falls on the last day of Autumn! So I'm frantically trying to harvest my crops and get my animals indoors for Winter, and I have to keep stopping every 10 minutes or so to talk to a kid that just demands candy from me! Grrr.

🍍(Pineapple) - What is your favourite art style of all the games?

This is a tough one, since there's so many different styles across the games.

I would probably have to say the original Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life.

There's definitely an element of nostalgia in my choice, but I also adore how realistic the game felt at the time.

I'm still blown away by some of the scenery even 20 years later (that river is gorgeous!!)

I also love the more realistic animal designs as well. Bubble cows are iconic, don't get me wrong, but I'll always pick the AWL cows as my favourites.

As much as I adore the remake, I'm a little sad that it lost something with the slightly more cartoony, saturated aesthetic. That's just my opinion, though.

Thank you so much for asking 💚

[lord-bleed]

Português:

Então,eu sumi com desenhos aqui no Aplicativo do Tumblr é sinceramente estou sem ideias paras postar aqui!

fora que não tenho tempo para o blog, então isso acaba dificultando as postagens.

mas a boa notícia sera que trarei novos projetos que envolvam Lupin III e com parceria! uma parceria muito especial^^

eu só poderei responder ASK e como perguntinhas que recebo,porem acabo não vendo muito a caixinha.

é só isso mesmo, obrigado por lerem.

Inglês:

So, I disappeared with drawings here on the Tumblr App and I honestly have no ideas to post here! Besides, I don't have time for the blog, so this ends up making posting difficult. but the good news will be that I will bring new projects involving Lupine III and with partnerships! a very special partnership^^ I can only answer ASK and the questions I receive, but I end up not selling the box much. That's all, thanks for reading.

Espanhol:

Así que desaparecí con dibujos aquí en la aplicación Tumblr y, sinceramente, ¡no tengo ideas para publicar aquí! Además, no tengo tiempo para el blog, por lo que esto acaba dificultando la publicación. ¡Pero la buena noticia será que traeré nuevos proyectos relacionados con Lupin III y con asociaciones! una asociación muy especial ^^ Sólo puedo responder ASK y las preguntas que recibo, pero termino sin vender mucho la caja. Eso es todo, gracias por leer.

[agentbilliard]

saint senyoyi, better known as agent biliard has been with cerberus corp as an eo since 2023 and is LEVEL III. BEING CRUSHED BY A VENDING MACHINE has gifted them telekinesis, though PHYSICAL INFLUENCE WEAKENING WITH DISTANCE, DISTRACTIONS, AND LARGER WEIGHTS has also been noted. when they aren’t protecting the tri-state area, they are fond of playing rounds of fischer random by his lonesome and are never seen without A LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL. civilians think they are meticulous & benevolent, but some of the other agents see them as NEUROTIC & COWARDLY. cerberus corp should consider the fact that their last mission status was successful, although unsuccessfully cleaning up local garbage might have been more impressive when giving out the next one.

001.  GENERAL

name  saint senyoyi

nicknames  agent billiard, vender bender, any saint under the canonized sun courtesy of agent jester

age  thirty-four

date of birth  march 9, 1989

zodiac  answer

place of birth  harefield, hillingdon, london

current residence  brooklyn, new york city, new york

gender  cis man

pronouns  he/him

orientation  bisexual, biromantic

occupations  level iii agent at cerberus corp, mathematics teacher and head custodian at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks

faceclaim  daniel kaluuya

height  5’8

tattoos  none (he does, however, have the divine patience and dearth of dignity required to doodle and calculate all over his forearms daily)

piercings  none (he does, however, have a fake nose ring from his stint in a school-sponsored production of annie wherein mr warbucks and his servants made liberal yet incorrect use of african-american vernacular english to teach middle schoolers about the cold war)

distinguishing features  there are few features of saint’s corporeal form that function as evidence of him being a good person, but at a minimum he has good grooming. his collars are pressed to perfection, his trousers are steamed to sublimity, his hair both facial and scalp-al is combed and clipped as much as possible. nonetheless, a good portion of his shirts are stained with presumably non-toxic paint or crumbs of a graphite muffin. the backs of his blazers are often adorned with sticky notes with adorable titles such as ‘YOUNGEST SENIOR CITIZEN’ and ‘NOBODY LIKES MATH’ and ‘MY FAVE FUNCTION IS =3’ from his students. what can he say? he’s sentimental to a fault. and far too broke to go to the laundromat every week.

positive traits  altruistic, diligent, humble, observant, organized, polite, pragmatic

negative traits  craven, cynical, deceitful, insecure, perfectionistic, pessimistic, unyielding

labels / tropes  absent-minded professor, bad liar, beware the quiet ones, stern teacher, the fettered

likes  alphabetical lists, dish washing, libraries, origami (he cannot do it whatsoever), pranks (if they’re done right), summer, students at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks (at least they’re funny pricks)

dislikes  art museums, astronomy girlies (if he learns that he has pisces energy one more time he will lose it), drinking (hypocritical), level iii agents, living conditions in nyc (no relation to previous item), rollercoasters, the subway

fears  blood, cockroaches, crowds, death, disappointing his family, his family period, smooth peanut butter, snakes, spiders, vending machines

hobbies  assigning homework, billiards (surprising who?), playing chess, solving crosswords, scrabble, sudoku — only the coolest activities for him, obviously

habits  bites pencils when deep in thought, cracks back against chairs, gestures to whiteboards that simply don’t exist, writes with said pencils on imaginary paper

002.  EXTRA ORDINARY

near death experience…  

“you two! i swear on my non-denominational god that i am not forcing you to believe in, if i see you trying to axe deodorant the animals into making a little baby leopard in front of you, i’m calling your mums and telling them to pick you up this instant.”

the two snicker in response. saint isn’t sure how to respond if not with a wave of his hand, a pinch of his brow, a tour-guide-induced plug of his ear for when half his salary goes to dealing with the legal repercussions of incident number graham. this is his first field trip sitting in as a supervisor, and between the bloody boring itinerary his class has been breaking for the past few million hours and the boorish colleague he’s been paired up with he reckons that it will be his last. good riddance, he will say. good riddance, the class will say. really, the people of new york pay high enough taxes for their final destination to be more than a borough away. yet, here he stands in the densest stench he’s known since ap calculus was moved to seventh period.

this is not what he signed up for. you know what he said, when teachers asked what superpower he wanted to have? his voice would crack and his face would be lightning-split open into a barely-toothed grin and he would say he wanted to be a teacher because wow! they did so much for so little! and the teacher’s voice would crack and their face would be thundering with the truth and they would move on with their days because saint senyoyi had parents who hated him and peers who tolerated him and the guidance counsellor could deal with all that when she got back from happy hour.

he knows what he wants. something cold to drink. stupid brooklyn uniforms have gotten dark enough to hide period stains but continue displaying the effects axe deodorant has on his physiology with pure crystal. he excuses himself temporarily, tells the tour guide he’s off to the bathroom and that all the kids have do not resuscitates somewhere between their baggy pockets and knockoff gucci fanny packs, and gets to a vending machine. it’s bad, he knows, to continue to support capitalism and pollution after all the public service announcements from the lions of lying-about-admissions-policies colleges but it’s all he can afford and all that he wants and you know what superpower he did not wish for? guilt tripping. it’s a part of the faculty welcome package, but he’s never liked gifts.

no diet options. not like he cares. he hasn’t had much time to go to the gym lately. he just needs energy. a temporary fix.

the vending machine, he finds on a note far too small to be in compliance with the the occupational safety and health administration’s latest spicy issue, is temporarily unserviceable. not like he cares. he’s already annihilated the rules by leaving his class to their own devices, shiny and beepy and blackmail-filled as they are. this is just the narcotizing nightcap on the mushroom cloud. he slips a coin through the slot and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

bloody hell. tommy j’s probably got his arse stuck between an alligator and a hard place by now, assuming sophie m’s greasy ipad hasn’t liquidated underneath the september sun. and assuming they haven’t broken up again, which is a flimsy variable by itself considering the seating arrangement’s got tommy j next to jason m and in front of jayson w and the three of them were exchanging notes yesterday like their lives depended on it. saint knocks on the glass. his parents never bothered to knock, but his sister had in the tune of an old ugandan choir song about welcoming and stars, so he does the same. welcome, cold coca-cola into his hands. welcome, please.

next he’s seeing stars. this is getting ridiculous. the machine is burping, whirring, choking, doing what saint should be doing as he details how the penguin populace has plummeted because of plastic straws and whatnot. he groans. only one thing left to do. he shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

next he’s seeing stars and blood and bone and you’re going to be a star saint because sophie m is taking a video of the entire ordeal as russell p drops his forged permission slip between sobs call 911 what’s the british version of 911 he’s english jayson same thing crapface pay attention in geology that’s geography jayson CALL 911 SCREAM CRY IS IT LUNCH IS HE DEAD SCREAM CRY I’M GETTING A REFUND CALL 911. there is glass everywhere. the ringing in his head is louder than the cries, the screams. pain is piercing yet heavy, paperwork that acts like a cactus to his poor eyes. that’s what he’s going to die as? the idiot who got crushed under a vending machine? no. he just needs to move. get out of the geysers and into a hospital that won’t charge him several billion dollars to get in.

he just needs to move.

he is not going to die before getting his one dollar bonus from the state exams.

SAINTS DO NOT DIE where did you come from father ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION an inch towards the snake enclosure could save me SAVE YOURSELF swimming around nana’s lake house i wonder if i would taste good right now i wonder if a hot emt will try and save me SAVE YOURSELF you taught me how to swim by throwing me in the lake SAVE YOURSELF

he comes back with a massive headache, three exams to grade, and the power to move things with his mind. and a viral remix of his death, but he still hasn’t watched that in full. he’s told the chorus is incredibly vulgar.

power…  

“i wasn’t cheating!”

saint is making a scene for the first time since the tender age of five years old for bragging rights and a lukewarm beer. he hasn’t been accused of cheating since his preliminary foray into the cutthroat world of primary school mathletes, and that situation had the excuse of being started by a bespectacled potato sack no older than five years old herself. he’s kicked out for a myriad of reasons, none of which he believes are based on truth: he had fixed the game, he had fixed the bets, he had fixed his life and therefore had no business being with his friends. honestly? he thinks they just can’t look at him the same after seeing his broken body in a bed of glass, and he can’t blame them for that. he blames them for what happens, next, though.

he retreats to his apartment in shame, exile. daedalus has lost his son, he has lost his place on the top ten trivia masters. then he learns that he can fix everything in his apartment with nothing more than a mathematical buttload of attention and his mind. which, yeah, sounds boring when he puts it like that, but it’s telekinesis. objects already within arm’s reach require little to no effort to move towards him, while materials any farther than that require great concentration and a clear view to be moved. saint and telekinesis have a relationship comparable to a coparenting strategy on the verge of collapse, and none of it is particularly empowering. if he desires to take control of a stack of papers he has to focus on those papers, get an unobstructed path to those papers, stare at those papers for a solid few seconds wherein a hostile could stab him in the back. if he decides that he does not want to touch those papers, they have about a 50-50 chance of coming at him in an effortless tornado anyhow. it makes thinking inconvenient, which makes his life inconvenient. still, they’re something. he can lift roughly as much as he can with his arms, which is around the hundred-fifty pound mark with oscar-worthy thanks to a premium gym membership he passive-aggressively received from his mother some years back, although he has limits. many of them, in fact.

drawbacks / vulnerabilities…  

“shitterdoodle cookies.”

saint is on the same ground level of pathetic as his choice in curse words, for someone who has access to the school twitter account and all the bots that spam it for engagement. the heavier the object, the harder it is to move in manners that do not sound like nails on a chalkboard. the more he uses his ability, the more he is exhausted, liable to ramble about sensitive industry secrets or his feelings. neither will stop, neither will leave the conversational partner with any semblance of sanity. he has to be careful with how long he spends looking at anything, too, lest he drag some family heirloom other than his own through new york mud. also, everything he moves seems to really like his face. his pockets are nothing but bandaid collections by now.

cerberus corp…  

“and i am auditioning for the part of…”

that’s not quite right, is it? he clears his throat. a decade of teaching under his overly tight belt and there persists a lump in his throat whenever it must open. saint’s feelings on cerberus corp are complicated in the way that proving 1 + 1 = 2 is complicated. it’s a fact of life to most, easy to accept for some, but it’s also something that gets the smart alecks of the yearbook salivating and thus something he does not want to be involved in. well, strike that out and rewrite it in the past tense, his teachers would demand, for he now desires a status in american society that does not amount to school/fast food slander scene packs or graves with no return policy. his audition video was enough to get him invited for an in-person appointment, but he suspects that the possibility of him using lights and strings to get the effect of telekinesis pulled along a hundred-pound weight in comparison to his ounce of charisma.

he gets accepted, anyways, by some miracle. maybe it’s merely a seasonal investment in the marketability of a man who can soon hurl snowballs at unprecedented heights and velocities if he manages to concentrate. concentration is harder these days, however, and that descriptor of his career prospects comes with a near-overdose of pressure. he’s been with cerberus for roughly a month now, though the days blur with the hustle and bustle of extraordinarily tedious tasks assigned by the big bosses. saint is a worker bee to his core, though, and understands ranks, roles, and professional hierarchies better than breathing, so he questions nothing. as long as management of his powers is a possibility, the probability of him becoming a manger who has to do zero practical saving is above zero.

saint isn’t the best partner to have around, per se. his abilities are useful, but his personality isn’t much of an asset unless the mission involves stationary store espionage, and his desperation for a guide to everything is everlasting. nonetheless, he is nothing if not nice and accommodating to those he respects (ie everyone except agent jester. dishes can only go unwashed for so many days before his conscience is wiped clean of sanitary scruples) and aims for perfection. which isn’t the best philosophy to have around, per se, but at least he’ll do all the paperwork for you with zero prompting.

codename…  

“vender bender? i would rather die again than be called that for the rest of my life.”

it’s a joke, but saint’s never been proficient with making those. his comedy is a dependent variable, a misshapen animal lump coagulating to the back of circumstances that prove truth is stranger than fiction. proof: here, now, as his branding is being discussed in a manner far too formal for the setting they find themselves in. he has no idea how he got here, honestly. how he got with cerberus, how his card didn’t turn red at the door of the bar. he supposes it’s something like the pythagorean theorem, if the hypotenuse was meant to be the shortest side. he’s not the shortest level iii agent, thank the non-denominational god that he is not forcing anyone to believe in, but there is a nagging feeling that he does not belong, that however many lives he saves he will always be the guy stuck under the vending machine traumatising upwards of infinity children.

he’ll stick with something short and sweet, thank you very much. occam’s razor has never cut murphy’s law while shaving at three in the morning. it is time to show the party how real english billiards is played. he’s set up his own cushions at the left and right ends, shown off his custom snooker spectacles, let everyone know what a genius he is. this is his element, the art of arithmetic gambling. one shot and he’s set for the night, getting his drinks paid by everyone in a fifteen foot radius.

he takes the shot and gets his nose broken by the ball going straight to the hard, wooden edge and bouncing straight to his hard, idiotic face.

agent billiard. that’s a joke for the ages. it’s short, sweet, and a math pun. saint hates puns. cerberus loves the name. saint then decides he loves it, too, changing his social media handles accordingly.

(this is me begging for someone to have their agent suggest billiard after seeing saint smack himself in the face with a cue stick pls and thank you)

003.  EXTRA

tl;dr of backstory while i make it all nice and fancy: the middling middle child of a blackjack dealer for one of the most corrupt casinos in london and a professional sports gambler, saint has always wanted to help people. he’s just never liked people. he’s always liked math, though, and upon moving to the us of a for the sake of his older sister’s career in medicine, he made sure that, if he was to be ignored by his beloved parents, he would be ignored and rich. flash forward to getting his first job at his alma mater which has improved in much the same way that milk improves by growing curds and the lowest college admissions rate in the city, getting crushed by a vending machine, getting kicked out of his favourite bar for cheating at billiards with superpowers, and getting his cool agent nickname his cool agent roomie and his uncool first few missions; if you need a reluctant ass-kicker/incredible ass-kisser/high school math tutor, this is your guy. his mission suit is 100% an actual suit. it doesn’t look cool whatsoever tho it’s the same getup he got into for seventh grade winter formal <3 also he's a faithful reddit user. thats his biggest character flaw i think but he's addicted to r/billiards and does not intend on quitting ever

wanted connections page here!!

[6em4k]

[X]

"Mara-struck." He turns the word over in his mouth, unpleasant like dry, crumbling leaf. "Right. Can't imagine you'd be a huge fan of that."

Nearby, a food vender feels a tap on his shoulder. When he turns, the shadows reach out with phantom, furred hands and swipe two skewers from the stall. Macaque, upon their return, takes one. The shadow offers Bailu the other.

"So, if those come off," He gestures with his own kabob stick towards her horns, "they're off until your next body grows it's own. And you," A light jab in her direction, "are basically a walking ingredient checklist. I get that right?" Waiting for her answer, he bites into the gooey berry at the top - was that glaze? It felt like a thick layer of it. He wasn't sure what to think of that part.