#For a hero's strength is measured by his heart

[voidfxndoms]

Every now and then I feel the burning need to rewatch Hercules, to remind myself that, even when you lose faith in yourself, there are others who don't. And it's those people you gotta surround yourself with. Those are the people that love you unconditionally.

[in-spain-without-an-s]

you know there’s a difference between msoat and goat ?!

because greatest does NOT equal most successful

[snowbairdd]

For a true hero isn't measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.

HERCULES (1997) dir. John Musker, Ron Clements

[n1ght0f-nyx]

mha boys asking you out 3/3

warnings/tags: cliffhanger, more fanon way of acting than canon ngl, i dont think there are warnings other than that- feel free to dm me if you notice a common warning that could affect someone characters: tamaki amajiki, koji koda, fumikage tokoyami, mezo shouji, hanta sero, tenya iida,yuga aoyama, shinsou, mirio togata, surprise guest at the end!! words: 2183

tamaki amajiki

I was sitting in the school courtyard, enjoying a rare moment of peace between classes, when I noticed Tamaki Amajiki standing a few feet away. He was fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, his gaze flickering between the ground and me. I had always admired Tamaki from afar—the way he carried himself with quiet strength, his incredible quirk, and his humble nature. But seeing him like this, so clearly nervous, made me curious.

"Hey, Tamaki," I greeted with a smile, trying to ease whatever was on his mind.

He looked up at me, his cheeks tinged with a light blush. "H-Hey, Y/N," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

I patted the empty spot next to me, inviting him to sit down. He hesitated for a moment before slowly lowering himself onto the bench, keeping a respectful distance. There was a moment of awkward silence as he seemed to gather his thoughts. I could tell something was bothering him, so I decided to gently nudge him.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, trying to catch his eyes.

He nodded quickly but then shook his head, as if he couldn’t decide which was the right answer. "I…I wanted to ask you something," he finally said, his voice so soft that I had to lean in a bit to hear him properly.

My heart skipped a beat. Tamaki was notoriously shy, so whatever he was about to say must have taken a lot of courage. I kept my expression calm, not wanting to add any pressure. "You can ask me anything, Tamaki."

He took a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. "I…I was wondering…if maybe…if you would want to go out with me…sometime?" His words tumbled out in a rush, and he immediately looked away, as if bracing himself for my response. koji koda

I was standing by the school's entrance, waiting for the bell to ring, when I noticed Koji Koda quietly approaching. He always seemed so gentle, like he belonged more in a field of flowers than in a class of future heroes. Despite his large frame, he had a calming presence, and his love for animals was something I admired.

He hesitated a few steps away from me, his hands fidgeting nervously. I smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. "Hey, Koji. What's up?"

His face turned a soft shade of pink as he glanced at me, then quickly looked away, his eyes focusing on the ground. He took a deep breath and fiddled with his fingers "hiy/nwouldyouliketograblunchwithme?" he squeaked Fumikagi Tokoyami

One afternoon, I found myself alone in one of the quieter hallways at U.A. High. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows along the walls. I was lost in thought when I noticed a familiar dark figure approaching.

"Y/N," Tokoyami's deep voice called out, breaking the silence. I turned to face him, surprised to see him standing so close. Dark Shadow hovered beside him, a curious glint in its eyes.

"Hey, toko..hi dark shadow" I greeted, trying to keep my voice steady. There was always something about his presence that made me a little nervous, in a good way.

He hesitated for a moment, his sharp gaze dropping to the floor before meeting mine again. "There's something I...we..mneed to ask you."

I felt my heart skip a beat. "Sure, what is it?"

"I… find myself drawn to your presence, like a moth to the flame," he began, his words measured and deliberate. "You bring a lightness that contrasts with the shadows that often surround me. I… admire that."

My cheeks flushed at his words. I had never heard him speak so openly before. "Thank you, Tokoyami. That means a lot."

Dark Shadow nudged him playfully, causing Tokoyami to huff in mild annoyance. "What I'm trying to say is… would you be interested in going out with me? Perhaps, to explore the darkness together?" mezo shoji

The day had been unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like something unexpected is bound to happen. I was packing up my things after class, lost in my thoughts, when I noticed Mezo Shoji standing a few feet away from me. He’s always been a bit of a mystery, with his calm demeanor and the way he hides his emotions behind that mask of his. But today, there was something different about him.

“Hey, Y/N,” Shoji’s voice came out slightly muffled, but still gentle. I looked up, meeting his gaze—or at least what I could see of it. His eyes were focused on me, a certain determination in them that I wasn’t used to seeing.

“Hey, Shoji. What’s up?” I asked, curious. He wasn’t the type to strike up random conversations, so I knew this had to be important.

He hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His tentacle arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to decide what to do with them. Finally, he let out a soft sigh, gathering his courage. “I was wondering… if you’d like to hang out sometime. Just the two of us.” hanta sero

It was a typical afternoon at U.A. High, and I was making my way down the hall when I noticed Hanta Sero leaning casually against a locker. His usual laid-back smile was in place, but there was something different in his eyes—like he was up to something. I raised an eyebrow as I approached.

“Hey, Sero,” I greeted him, trying to keep my voice casual. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” he said, pushing off the locker and standing up straight. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

I chuckled. “Well, you found me. What’s on your mind?”

Sero scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly nervous, which was rare for him. “So, there’s this new café that opened up downtown. They’re supposed to have some killer sweets, and I know you’re into that stuff…”

My heart skipped a beat as I realized where this might be going. “Yeah, I do have a bit of a sweet tooth,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Right, so I was thinking…” He paused, glancing away for a moment before locking eyes with me again. “Would you want to check it out with me? Like, this weekend? Just the two of us?” tenya iida

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and I gathered my things, ready to head home. As I reached the door of the classroom, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I saw Tenya Iida standing there, his usual serious expression slightly softened.

"Y/N," he began, adjusting his glasses with that characteristic sharp motion. "Could I have a moment of your time?"

"Sure, what's up?" I asked, curious about what could be on his mind.

He hesitated for a second, something I wasn't used to seeing from him. Tenya was always so confident, so decisive. But now, it seemed like he was carefully choosing his words. "I wanted to speak with you about something important," he said, his voice steady despite the nervousness I could sense beneath it.

I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"I admire your dedication and the way you handle yourself in challenging situations," he said, his tone sincere. "You have a sense of responsibility that I respect greatly. Because of this, I’ve been thinking… perhaps we could spend more time together, outside of our usual school activities."

My heart skipped a beat as his words sank in. "Are you… asking me out, Tenya?" I asked, feeling a mix of surprise and excitement.

"Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing," he confirmed, a small but determind smile appearing on his face. "I believe we could be a good match, and I’d like to get to know you better. What do you think?"

Yuga Aoyama

I was heading back to the dorms when I noticed a familiar sparkle out of the corner of my eye. Yuga Aoyama was standing by the fountain, his usual confident smile in place, and something about the way he was looking at me made my heart skip a beat.

"Ah, mon ami!" he called out, waving dramatically. "You shine as brightly as the sun today!"

I couldn’t help but smile at his usual flair. "Hey, Aoyama. What’s up?"

He sauntered over, hands behind his back, clearly hiding something. His eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and nervousness, which was unusual for him. "I’ve been meaning to ask you something, something très important."

My curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

With a flourish, Aoyama revealed a small, beautifully wrapped box from behind his back. "For you, mon étoile," he said, presenting it to me with a dazzling grin.

I took the box, feeling a little flustered. "What’s this for?"

"Open it and see," he encouraged, his eyes never leaving mine.

I carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a delicate silver necklace with a tiny star charm. It was simple yet elegant, just like him. My breath caught as I looked up at him, trying to process what this meant.

"Aoyama… it’s beautiful. But why…?"

He took a step closer, his usual bravado softened by a sincerity I hadn’t seen before. "Because, my dear, I think you and I… we could make the most magnifique couple. You bring light into my life, and I wish to do the same for you. Would you do me the honor of going out with me?" Hitoshi Shinso

I tried to ignore the way my heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Shinsou and I had become closer over the past few months, sharing late-night study sessions and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Still, I couldn't quite decipher the look in his eyes whenever he caught me staring. Was it curiosity? Or something more?

“Hey,” he said, pushing himself off the wall and walking toward me. His voice, low and smooth, sent a shiver down my spine. “Got a minute?”

“Of course,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I smiled up at him. “What’s up?”

Shinsou hesitated, his usual confident demeanor faltering for a moment as he scratched the back of his neck. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, his eyes locking onto mine. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually.”

I felt my breath catch, anticipation and nerves swirling in my chest. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving mine. “Would you… like to go out with me sometime? Just the two of us?” mirio togata

I couldn't help but notice how bright the day seemed when Mirio Togata approached me after training. His ever-present smile made the sun seem a little less important, and I couldn't help but smile back as he waved enthusiastically.

"Hey there!" Mirio greeted me, his voice full of energy as usual. "How’s training been for you?"

I laughed a little, brushing some sweat off my forehead. "Tough, but you know how it is. How about you? Still making it look easy?"

Mirio chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I try, but you know, it’s not always as easy as it looks." There was a brief pause before he continued, his tone softening just a bit. "Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something."

I blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. "Yeah? What is it?"

Mirio took a deep breath, his smile never fading but his eyes showing a hint of nervousness. "I was wondering… would you like to go out with me sometime? Like, on a date?"

For a moment, I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Mirio, the ever-positive, ever-smiling hero, was asking me out? My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel my face heating up. "A date?" I repeated, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

He nodded, still smiling but now with a bit of that famous Mirio determination. "Yeah, I really like spending time with you, and I thought… well, maybe you’d like to spend some more time together, outside of training." mineta my love <3333

I was walking through the halls of U.A., trying to shake off the exhaustion of the day's training. Just as I turned the corner, I nearly bumped into Minoru Mineta. His eyes widened when he saw me, and a mischievous grin crept onto his face. I knew that look all too well.

"Hey, Y/N~" he said, his voice laced with that familiar lisp. "I've been wanting to, uh, athk you thomething for a while now."

I raised an eyebrow, half-expecting whatever he had to say to be one of his usual pervy comments. "What is it, Mineta?"

He took a step closer, his small stature making him seem less threatening and more…well, awkward. "You know, you're, like, really hot," he started, his eyes shamelessly wandering up and down. "And I think we'd make a thuper cute couple. Tho, how about you go out with me, huh?" ew...

[flowerynameslover]

“For a true hero isn't measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.”

Hercules (1997)

Disney Meme: 10 Films (6/10)

[fangdokja]

What happens when a hero's love turns into an obsession that even he can't control?

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Isekai! Knight x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. #1

♡ Word Count. 1,538

1. When the Hero Fell

Once, he was the embodiment of virtue—a knight who fought for justice, his sword unwavering, his heart untainted. He was a savior to the helpless, a beacon of hope in a fractured world. Every choice he made was righteous, every step forward part of a grand design.

Then you entered his life.

You shattered everything.

He remembers the first time he met you. The moment you outmaneuvered him, reducing his pride to ash and mocking his every belief. You didn’t just defeat him; you desecrated the very ideals he lived for. The court whispered of his humiliation—the knight bested by someone who shouldn’t have mattered. But what gnawed at him most wasn’t the loss—it was you.

The fire in your eyes. The way your lips curled into a triumphant cold smile as you disappeared.

That moment rewrote the fabric of his soul. What was once a man of honor became a creature consumed by obsession. The image of you haunted him—your laughter, your defiance, the scent of your hair as you passed by him, unafraid.

He calls it love. He whispers it to himself like a prayer. It’s not his fault. It can’t be his fault. You made him this way. You forced him to fall, to betray the principles he had once vowed to protect. And now, no matter the cost, you belong to him.

Forever.

2. Shackling You—Literally

You are clever, and he knows it. He’s seen your brilliance firsthand, and he refuses to underestimate you again. There will be no second chances.

The chains are his masterpiece. Forged by his own hands, they are as unyielding as his obsession. They scrape your skin raw when you struggle, the jagged edges deliberately designed to punish defiance. Shackles bind your wrists and ankles, their oppressive weight a constant reminder of his control. With every step you take, the chains chime like a dirge, mourning your freedom.

When your resistance grows too fierce, he takes additional measures. A collar—cold steel etched with his sigil—wraps tightly around your neck. The sight of it fills him with pride, a symbol of his dominion over you.

“This is for your safety,” he murmurs, his tone almost tender as he fastens it in place. His thumb traces the edge, lingering just enough to make you shudder. “I couldn’t bear it if you tried to leave me again. Don’t make me regret trusting you, little mouse.”

3. Shattering Defiance

Your spirit is maddening. Beautiful. Unyielding. He both loathes and craves it. He speaks of taming you, like you’re some feral creature in need of discipline. But his methods go beyond demands. His punishments are precise, designed to erode your will piece by piece.

Defiance is met with starvation, your body trembling in the icy dark of his dungeons. He watches you through the bars, his gaze unwavering, his presence suffocating. He waits. He always waits. Until you break.

When your resistance falters, when your strength dwindles to nothing, he rewards you with twisted affection. His gloved hands cup your face, his touch almost reverent as he whispers, “Good girl.”

The words are poison, sweeter than any comfort you’ve ever known. They seep into your heart, leaving you hollow. His satisfaction is chilling, his smile sharper than any blade.

In these moments, his gentleness feels more brutal than his punishments. He cradles you like something precious, pressing kisses to your forehead as he promises to protect you—to keep you safe. Yet his love is laced with threats, promises of pain if you defy him again.

“Why fight me?” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s so much easier when you listen.”

4. Love and Control

He knows your body like a sacred text. Every bruise, every scar, every trembling breath is a testament to his ownership. His hands trace your skin with cruel precision, cataloging every mark he’s left. You’re his masterpiece, your body a canvas painted with his obsession.

“Look at this,” he says one night, his voice low and full of pride. His fingers brush over a fresh bruise on your collarbone. “Proof that you’re mine. No one else gets to touch you. Ever.”

Yet for all his cruelty, his reverence for you borders on reverence. In the quiet hours of the night, his touch softens. He holds you as though you’re something holy, his lips brushing against your temple as he murmurs words that make your skin crawl.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, his voice thick with devotion. “Don’t you see? You were made for me.”

5. Breaking Your Mind

Owning your body is not enough. He craves your mind, your heart, your very essence. His words are weapons, slicing through your resolve with surgical precision. He twists reality until the world beyond him feels like a distant memory.

“Do you even remember what your life was like before me?” he asks, his tone soft but insidious. “Do you think anyone misses you? No, little one. They’ve forgotten you. You’re nothing to them. But to me? You’re everything.”

When you beg for freedom, for release, he only laughs. The sound is cold, devoid of mercy.

“Freedom?” he echoes, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Is that what you think you had before? You don’t know what’s good for you. But don’t worry—I do.”

And as the walls close in, as his words warp the edges of your reality, you realize there is no escape. Not from him. Not from the monster your defiance created.

6. False Kindness

He’s learned your patterns—when you’re at your weakest, when the fire in your eyes begins to dim. That’s when he strikes hardest.

His mercy is a noose disguised as kindness, a lifeline thrown only to choke you tighter. A scrap of bread. A sip of water.

“You’ve been good lately,” he murmurs, tilting your chin upward with two fingers. “My little mouse deserves to be taken care of.”

The food is laced, of course—a slow poison to keep you docile, thoughts sluggish, your body soft and pliable in his grasp. He hums in satisfaction when you eat it, hands brushing your hair as though you’re something fragile and precious.

Sometimes, he gives you an illusion—a taste of hope.

“Run,” he says one day, stepping back, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression is unreadable, dark eyes boring into you. “Go on. Escape me.”

You hesitate—you know it’s a trap—but desperation propels your feet. You barely make it a handful of steps before his hand closes around your wrist like a steel cuff, yanking you back so hard you hit his chest. The breath whooshes from your lungs as his grip tightens—unrelenting, bruising.

“Pathetic,” he sneers, his mouth at your ear. “Did you really think you could leave me? You’re mine.”

Other times, the game changes. He gives you space—a larger chamber, full of darkened corners and false exits.

“Let’s play a game,” he says, voice silk-smooth, too calm to be safe. “You run, and I’ll chase you. If you make it out… maybe I’ll let you go.”

He lets you believe it’s real—just long enough for panic to sharpen your senses—before he finds you. His voice calls out in the dark, always a step behind.

And when he catches you… his laughter echoes, deep and guttural, vibrating against your skin.

“You almost made it that time,” he mocks, dragging you back into his arms. “Almost.”

7. Ritual Devotion

To him, you are divine—a holy relic, a deity incarnate, sent to save a monster like him. The depth of his obsession borders on fanaticism. He prays to you in silence, his lips moving as he carves sigils and symbols into the stone walls—your name etched into the world around him.

You wake sometimes to find him kneeling at the edge of your bed, a blade in one hand, his other smeared with his own blood.

“You saved me,” he whispers, eyes shining with feverish conviction. “Without you, I’m nothing. You’re my light in the darkness.”

The sincerity is what terrifies you most.

8. A Bond Sealed in Blood

When his paranoia peaks, when even chains and threats aren’t enough to reassure him, he tells you of the ritual. A final act to bind you to him—body and soul—forever.

“We’ll be one,” he breathes, eyes gleaming with unhinged anticipation. “You’ll mark me, and I’ll mark you. No one will ever come between us again.”

The tools are laid out with care—knives, needles, branding irons—their edges glinting cruelly in the low light. He gives you no choice. You scream as pain blossoms—searing, shattering—and when it’s over, you feel forever marred. His mark—his claim—etched into your very skin.

He holds you after, cradling you like you’re fragile, pressing reverent kisses to your temple as your body trembles.

“There now,” he whispers, his voice heavy with dark satisfaction. “It’s done. You’re mine now… and I’m yours. Forever.”

His love isn’t love. It’s madness—a cage of steel and shadows, a prison he has carved into your very being. You are his masterpiece—his to cherish, to break, and to rebuild—again and again.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Scragglmop the Destroyer

Once feared throughout the land, a great and terrible dragon grew tired of being endlessly hunted for his hoard and faked his death with the aid of a glory-hungry gnomish bard. Living on for centuries in the guise of a street cat, the dragon is now a hair's breadth from resuming his rampaging ways after the bard's descendants have lost the fortune he gave over to them for safe keeping.

Adventure Hooks:

A series of unexplained fires has wracked the city in recent weeks, which has both the guard and the populace on edge. Rumours swirl blaming arsonists, saboteurs from a rival kingdom, even an illegal duelling society of mages, but none have yet put it together that all of the workshops and businesses were all patronized in one way or another by the famed Candlebright noble family.

Coincidentally, Hignatta Candlebright, young head of that same noble house has sent an invitation to the party to join her at a famed teahouse to discuss a delicate matter involving the retrieval of stolen property. Hignatta has all but taken over the teahouse and its guestrooms since her own family home burned down near the start of the panic, and the party might begin to draw a connection when half way through their meeting the teahouse begins to fill with smoke, panicking patrons, and a booming, sourceless voice that demands "WHERE IS MY GOLD, CANDLEBRIGHT?!"

If you really want to mess with the party, consider introducing them to the fluffy street cat completely independently of the arson plot, making a nuisance of himself in the market while they're trying to shop, or catching mice in their store-room should they have acquired a residence in town. Have them befriend the cat as they might any bad-tempered stray, only to realize after the adventure is half way through that the mice he catches are always somewhat charred. Also imagine the looks on their faces the moment the party's home is broken into by an enemy and their housecat incinnerates a wave of intruders for disturbing his nap.

Background: Everyone knows the story about how the legendary hero Gailen Candlebright saved the realm from the tyrannical dragon Slaggrath, a beast known to devour whole armies and raze kingdoms in search of treasure. It's the ubiquitous tale against which all adventurers are measured against, made all the more ubiquitous thanks to the fact that the deed is memorialized in drinking ballads, children rhymes, and even a few folk operas. Gailen was a troubadour of not insignificant skill before he became a legend, and he had little trouble using that skill and hardwon fame to ensure his deeds would never be forgotten.

As with many tales told by the bards, Gailen left out quite a bit of the truth when concocting his tale: It was a late night in a roadside tavern and the young Candlebright was approached by a sourfaced man with a tangled beard and clothes that might have once been quite fine. Gailen had sung for his supper and then some, his hat was overflowing with tips from a long night's work and a greatful crowd, and the old man wanted to know how it was exactly that the Gnome hadn't yet been robbed; The roads were full of all sorts of rough types who thought that their strength entitled them to others' wealth, bandits yes but worse yet kingsmen, who took what they wanted sure that that they were above any kind punishment.

Seeing that the old man had fallen on rough times, likely having been robbed himself, Gailen spoke from the heart: He'd been robbed a few times yes, but he got by looking like someone that no one would bother to steal from, dressing in his fine clothes only on days he'd perform, and keeping most of his riches in the safe keeping of others, such as the caravan masters he frequently traveled along with.

The old man considered Gailen's words and the two sat up drinking through the night debating the merits of the Troubador's duplicity. Was it not better, asked the old man, to defend what was yours with strength and reputation, That everyone might learn from the failure of those that had trifled with you before?

Gailen looked at the many scars the old man bore and countered that fools never learned their lesson, they just thought themselves better than the last fool who risked it and they'd keep risking it till luck won out or they went to join all the fools that had come before.

It was dawn when the two parted ways, Gailen tottering off to bed thinking he'd given council to a reformed bandit chief, the old man slipping out of the inn and taking to wing thinking he'd concocted a brilliant scheme with the help of his newest, and perhaps first, friend.

i was a week (and one pants-shitting revelation over the old man's true draconic nature) later that the legend of Slaggrath came to an end: Gailen walking into that very same tavern bloodied, burnt, and with the broken off horn of the great wyrm held above his head as a trophy. The news spread like wildfire, the name Candlebright ascended to the shortlist of the realm's great champions, and not a soul questioned when the newly knighted Gailen comissioned the construction of an elaborate series of vaults beneith the castle he'd just been awarded. The bard had everything he wanted, and in return he and his family would hold the dragon's horde in trust, not touching a single copper and adding a little to it each year out of respect for the wyrm's generosity.

Future Adventures:

Even before he charmed his way into unexpected riches, Gailen was an ardent follower of Garl Glittergold, god of ambition, wit, and wariness. Genresavvy bard that he was, he understood that this fabulous windfall wasn't just some gift from his god, it was a test, and that to keep his good fortune going he'd best abide by the exact deal he'd struck in that tavern. Gailen kept Slaggrath's treasure under lock and key all his life and made sure his children did the same despite never telling them where he got it, in accordance with his pact with the dragon . Feeling that the Candlebright family has sat on its laurels for far too long (especially since practical and buisness minded Hignatta has been increasingly questioning why her late grandfather insisted on keeping a giant pile of money in their basement and never spending it), the god has seen fit to shake things up, ensuring that some long lost blueprints for the vault have fallen into the hands of a group of thieves, who broke in and cleared the vault though the very same secret passages Slaggrath used to pop in every decade or so and make sure the count was up to date. The dragon is pissed, convinced Hignatta has reneged on her family's deal.. and all the while the thieves get closer and closer to escaping.

Depending on how the party handles it this situation could break bad in any number of ways: The dragon could give up on being Scragglmop and go on a rampage forcing the party to put him down, they could intercede on Hignatta's behalf and ensure the treasure is returned possibly earning themselves a cushy position as retainers of house Candlebright, perhaps most dangerously they could earn the attention of Garl Glittergold himself and end up being singled out for their own unstable blessing.

In addition to being motivated by the prerequisite desire to get rich, the thieves were hired by an ambitious mage who has long desired to get his hands on Gailen's Horn, the draconic trophy the bard thereafter used as the sigil for his house and hollowed out into a heavy instrument through which he channelled his most showy magic. The mage has designs on the horn as the centrepiece of a ritual drawing on the object's history of power and triumph. Given that the horn is in fact the centrepiece of a giant con it's going to bring some very unaccounted for variables into the mage's ritual which is liable to set off its own chain of problems down the line.

Art

[daleearnhardt]

But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part For a hero's strength is measured by his heart. for @argentinagp

[nylpad]

SHADOWS AND DREAMS

Warnings: none (I think)

In the shadowed alleys of Gotham, where secrets and dangers lurk in equal measure, there lived a young man named Damian Wayne. Heir to the Wayne legacy, Damian was more accustomed to the life of a vigilante than the trivialities of teenage romance. His nights were spent patrolling the streets, his mind focused on justice, not love.

Y/N was a newcomer to Gotham, her presence a mystery wrapped in an enigma. She moved through the city like a whisper, her origins unknown, her purpose concealed. To Damian, she was just another citizen of Gotham, perhaps in need of protection, but nothing more.

Their paths crossed during a rare moment of peace, atop the gargoyle-studded rooftops. Y/N, with her keen observation, had noticed the young Wayne and his nightly escapades. She approached him not with fear, but with curiosity, a trait that piqued Damian's interest despite himself.

As the son of Batman, Damian was trained to trust no one, yet there was something about Y/N that disarmed him. She didn't flinch at the sight of his combat gear, nor did she swoon over his family's wealth. Instead, she challenged him with her intellect, her laughter echoing against the backdrop of the city's chaos.

In the weeks that followed, Damian found himself drawn to Y/N's resilience and wit. She wasn't just another face in the crowd; she was a beacon of light in Gotham's perpetual darkness. Her strength reminded him of his own, yet her compassion opened doors he thought were forever closed.

One evening, as the city bathed in the glow of the Bat-Signal, Y/N shared a poem she had written. It spoke of finding beauty in the unexpected, of love blossoming in the midst of turmoil. Damian listened, his guarded heart resonating with every word.

He had been raised to be a warrior, a defender, not a lover. Yet, as he stood beside Y/N, the city sprawling beneath them, he realized that she had become his confidant, his ally, his unexpected solace.

"I didn't care for you when we first met," Damian confessed, his voice barely above the hum of the city. "But now, you've become someone I can't ignore. You've shown me that even in Gotham, there's room for something more."

Y/N smiled, her eyes reflecting the night sky, and in that moment, Damian Wayne, the boy trained to be a hero, understood the true power of connection. For in a city that never sleeps, he had found a reason to dream.

[doumadono]

hi i wanted to send an emergency request so if it makes you uncomfortable but ive been struggling with an eating disorder for 2 years now i was wondering if you could do katsuki comforting reader who cant get herself to eat.

Sanctuary of gentleness - Bakugo x Reader

A/N: I'm really sorry to hear about the struggles you’ve been facing. Healing is not linear and every small step you take towards recovery is a victory. It's important to be kind to yourself and recognize the strength it takes to face each day

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST - PART 2

The day had stretched out long and weary, a tapestry of endless hours that found you curled up on the living room sofa, a book lying forgotten on your lap. Sunlight waned, slipping through the curtains in lazy, golden streaks, as the clock ticked towards the time Katsuki would come home.

You hadn’t eaten anything all day. The very thought tightened an invisible band around your chest, making it hard to breathe, to move, to think beyond the numbing fear that came with every mealtime.

The sound of the door slamming jolted you from your reverie, heralding Katsuki’s return. His heavy footsteps resonated against the hardwood floor. "Hey," he started, his voice rough around the edges after a day of shouting orders and battling foes. "I'm home."

He was ready for a night of quiet, hopefully punctuated by the comfort of a shared meal with you, his beloved fiancée, but the apartment was too quiet, the usual signs of life unsettlingly absent.

He appeared in the doorway, his hero costume replaced by an oversized, grey t-shirt and black sweatpants, his face drawn tight with exhaustion, hair disheveled. He found you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs.

You glanced up, managing a weak smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Welcome back," you murmured.

Katsuki’s brow furrowed as he approached you, a twinge of concern tightening his chest.

The kitchen was untouched - the pots and pans in their places, the plates clean, the entire space too orderly. "Did you eat anything today?" he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Your silence was answer enough.

"Dammnit!" Katsuki exploded, his temper flaring as it often did when he felt helpless. "You need to eat, damn it! You can’t just -"

But he stopped, the anger draining from him as he took a closer look at you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, and your hands were clasped tightly in your lap. This wasn’t the stubbornness he often dealt with in the field; this was something deeper, something painful.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the spikes falling disorderly, a rare sign of his agitation. "I’m sorry," he muttered, sitting down beside you. He took a deep breath, his next words more measured. "Talk to me."

You shifted, leaning into him, your head resting against his strong shoulder. "I don’t know, Katsuki. It’s hard to explain," you whispered, the weight of your confession making your voice tremble. "Everything’s just too much. And I am not hungry... Even if I feel dizzy and unwell..."

Katsuki’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His heart ached at your admission, his usual solutions of fighting through the problem useless here. "I know, babe, I know it’s hard," he said, his voice a low rumble coming from deep withing his chest. "But you gotta eat. We’ll figure this out, okay? Together."

You nodded against him, the fight draining out of you. "I want to get better," you admitted, "But I'm afraid I'm not strong enough. I'm so scared."

"Then we start small," he said decisively. "What about some green tea? And maybe some toast?" His proposal was gentle, a stark contrast to his usual bluntness.

"That sounds okay," you agreed.

Katsuki stood, extending his hand to you. "Let’s go then. I’ll make it." His words were a command, but his tone was soft, caring.

In the kitchen, Katsuki moved with a sureness. He heated the water, and soon tea was ready. He watched you out of the corner of his eye as he buttered the toast.

You sat at the counter, watching him, the normalcy of the situation making you feel calmer.

When he placed the cup and plate in front of you, his hand lingered over yours, warm and reassuring. "It’s okay to struggle," Katsuki said, meeting your gaze with an intensity that only he could muster. "But you’re not alone. Never."

Katsuki sat across from you, and started eating his portion.

As you nibbled on the toast and sipped the tea, Bakugo talked about trivial things - something funny Kirishima had said, a weird quirk a villain had used that day - his words light, but his presence a steadfast anchor in the storm of your thoughts. There was no impatience in his gaze, no biting remarks about the speed at which you ate. Instead, there was an unspoken encouragement.

When the plates were finally empty, Katsuki leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on you, but now there was a hint of pride in his eyes. "See? You can do this," he said, his voice low and reassuring.

You looked up from your plate, meeting his gaze. "It was good," you whispered softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "But I'm full."

Finally, the dishes were cleared, and you both moved to the living room, the space familiar and comforting.

Katsuki, usually a bundle of restless energy, seemed more at ease, his demeanor gentle as he sat down beside you on the couch. He draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, and you leaned into the warmth of his body, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your side. He kissed the top of your head softly, a gesture so laden with affection and resolve. "We're a team, remember?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "No matter how tough it gets, we face it together."

You nodded, the simplicity of the moment wrapping around you like a cocoon. "Together," you agreed, the word a lifeline in the swirling sea of your thoughts.

Katsuki had always been a fortress of strength, but now he was also a sanctuary of gentleness.

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: Ezra Bridger is home at last . . .

*Author's Note: This was originally a sabezraweek2024 fanfic that did not get finished on time and was delayed due to . . . circumstances. I hope that this story gives you, dear reader, some small measure of joy. We will be needing it in the days, months, and years to come.

Prompt - Surprise(?)

@sabezraweek

Your name is Ezra Bridger, and you have finally returned home.

Standing in the doorway of the old comm-tower you lived in for seven long, dark, and lonely years. All the old feelings return in a rush: a heady surge of nostalgia, joy, and lingering sadness that not even your Jedi training can fight against.

It almost brings you to your knees in that moment, that wave of emotions. You fight it off, swaying in the doorway.

(But you do not fight the stream of tears falling down your face. You do not even try.)

The woman who is practically a second mother to you gives you a gentle squeeze on your arm. Hera Syndulla has barely aged a day since you last saw her. Her voice still carries the gravity of command that you had grown accustomed to since the day you first met - but now it sits more heavily, more pronounced. The title of General does not seem to weigh much on her, yet the wear and tear of years fighting a war for freedom do.

You can see it in her eyes. The sadness of those who were lost.

(You were not with her to mourn the passing of your mentor, Kanan Jarrus. That is something you will always regret, no matter how necessary the sacrifice was.)

But none of that diminishes the joy. In the Force, you see her truly: a gentle fountain of golden light, always pouring forth. No darkness will ever blight the person that is Hera Syndulla. Whatever evil the galaxy conjures up to throw at her, she will never falter in her truth.

(That is an immutable fact of the universe. And everyone who knows her understands that.}

Both of the Jedi who loved her were inspired by the light she represented. So much so, that one died to protect it.

Even now, you turn to her for strength. Not to stand against an incoming darkness, but a return to the light.

You have returned home.

Hera says some gentle words, joined with a tearful smile. She has never left your side since you came back. There is always a smile - and, sometimes, with it comes some tears.

She leaves you be, once assured that you will be okay, to wait outside and extend some privacy.

Taking a deep breath, you walk inside the place you once called home.

It does not surprise you to see the mess that greets you. You know who has been living here during your absence.

(She fought for this place to remain a home. Not to become a tomb.)

A loth cat - Murley, you were told was his name - watches you with bright, curious eyes. It loafs, in the way loth cats do when relaxing, on the edge of a work bench. Cautiously, you extend a hand.

Murley sniffs hesitantly, and then gives a tender boop of his nose on the edge of your finger.

Guess that means I'm welcome to stay, you think, a smile forming on your face.

With the loth cat's approval, you walk around the comm-tower's interior slowly, taking everything in.

You see the paintings on the walls; the paint, the symbols, the signs of life and light that were not present before. The notes, the data pads, the texts, the tools, the clothes all strewn about like they were caught in the grip of a vicious gale of wind - all of it, burning brightly with her presence.

She made this a home, just as you did. A part of you wonders why she came here, of all places. She was a war hero. Surely, they offered her anywhere to stay on Lothal.

You know why, whispers a voice from the corner of your heart. She had nowhere else to go.

No. That was not the reason.

There was nowhere else she wanted to go. Not after . . .

You close your eyes, extending your senses in the Force. It takes far longer than it should, as your heart threatens to hammer its way through your chest, fueled by the sudden resurgence of feelings long thought buried.

When the calm comes, and you reach out -

Ezra.

Her voice. Saying your name in a hushed whisper, a thousand - no, a million times over and over.

Like a prayer. Every utterance comes with a different inflection - sometimes sad, sometimes happy, and sometimes angry - but, as you delve deeper into the Force, you can sense the same emotion of where it all is born from.

It's the same emotion you felt when first seeing her again after so many years of dreaming of the moment when she would come for you, at last.

You felt it when your eyes locked with hers; an achingly familiar face that you imagined on your bleakest days. A beautiful face, full of fierce pride and devotion, that you tried clumsily to recreate with a crude pen and even cruder hand, on the days when loneliness threatened to take you.

You felt it when she spoke; her voice being like a melody whose tune you had almost forgotten in the long years abandoned. Hearing it was like seeing the sun break through a dark, gray morning. She teased and joked and bantered with you like no time had passed.

You felt it when she embraced you; the steady, sure strength of her arms, clad in the unbreakable beskar steel of her people - an unbreakable strength that paled next to her own will and determination. Once, when you were younger, you thought that strength could shake the stars.

(You are more right than you are willing to admit.)

You felt it when you inhaled her scent - a scent that reminded you of the fresh bloom of flowers, delicate and lovely - as she hugged you close enough to feel the beating of your heart. Although you both acted the part of dearly reunited friends, you know that something deeper had transpired in your reunion.

Because when you felt her heartbeat, you mistook it for your own at first - until you realized that both of yours were beating so profoundly in unison that it felt like one heart.

When you open your eyes again, you are not surprised to feel the tears falling from them again.

You think about the last time you saw her - fighting on the top of a dark tower, saving another friend. A flash of emerald, flaring bright against the bleak sky of a foreign world.

You, Ezra Bridger, suddenly feel more alone than when you were stranded in another galaxy.

Looking around now, the place you called home feels empty. Despite the familiar surroundings and scents, it does not feel right. Something is missing.

Someone is missing from it. The absence fills the silence inside the comm-tower, robbing you of breath and peace.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how she felt for all those years. You can scarcely stand it now, not being there with her.

How did she handle it? How did she survive?

(You know what she did. The question is what will you do?)

You, Ezra Bridger, are surprised to realize that you are not home.

Not yet. Home, you now know, was never a place.

Home was left behind.

There is shame now. A gentle, burning regret. Once, you think to yourself, you knew this to be true.

How easy it is to forget.

(She never did.)

(What will you do, with all your power?)

You take a deep breath - and listen to the Force.

Hera comes beside you, concerned. You turn to her and say three words - a truth, a reason, and a call to action.

She laughs gently. "You didn't know?"

You shake your head, ruefully.

A gentle rap on your forehead. "Guess there's still some things for the Jedi Knight to learn."

You nod, thinking fervently, I hope so.

Hera studies you closely. "You sure about this?"

You repeat the same three words. She snorts.

"You already said that."

It makes things simpler, you think. But you only answer with a smile.

"Alright, then. Let's go get her, Ezra."

Your voice comes out firm and steady with purpose - and you think about her again, an image vividly springing to life in the forefront of your mind: her, smiling up at a sea of stars far, far away, thinking of home.

But not a place. A person.

This time, you start to think, as you walk out of the comm-tower and into the lowered ramp of the waiting Ghost.

This time, I really am going home.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Here it is! The fairy Time fic I promised. Be warned, it is extremely fluffy

-------------------------------------------

It is a quiet night.

Time is always grateful for those. They are in short supply on this journey, too often interrupted by the rise of the cursed Blood Moon or an outburst of beasts from under the cover of foliage. But tonight, the moon is tranquil and golden and the surrounding bushes and trees conceal nothing except chattering critters.

The heroes have settled around the fire, and are trading lazy quips. The occasional tale sneaks in between them, which quickly becomes a competition to see who has endured the more exciting experience. 

Time doesn’t normally make a habit of joining in. He is content to remain just outside the conversation, close enough to comment if necessary, but far enough to merely listen. Such peace and joy are precious things – as precious as every moment spent by Malon’s side – and they surround him like a warm blanket.  

Tonight, however, that wonderful feeling is making it rather difficult to remain awake. 

It doesn’t help that the healing spells he had cast in the aftermath of today’s battle have left him feeling drained. With the traveler down and their potions used up, he had had little choice but to act. And he doesn’t regret it in the least. But that doesn’t negate the fact that healing magic has never been his strong suit.

Every fae possesses the power, yet not all have the strength to employ it in such a measure as he had today. Healing is a delicate act. It requires attentiveness and care, dedication and focus. He had poured all of that and more into his spells, used his heart and mind, his soul to heal his brothers’ wounds and save their lives. And in the moments afterward…had collapsed. 

He is fortunate his brothers had been there to catch him. Too many times before he learned his limit, this weakness had spelled his doom. He has scars on his wings to prove it.

Still, he is practically useless, even now after the impromptu nap. He feels dried up and hollowed out, limbs heavy with the same exhaustion that drags his eyelids downward. And though he would normally protest at least a little at the prospect of staying in his current position, he cannot dredge up the will to do so.

So, here he remains, curled up on his side on Wind’s lap, Warriors’ scarf a silken cocoon about his body, one giant wing draped over him like a comforter. 

He shifts with a small sigh. The sailor giggles, ever amazed at his fairy form, and reaches out to run a finger over Time’s wings. He is gentle, careful in every movement. Still, Time is a bit surprised at the lack of the fear that usually bubbles up whenever anyone touches him in this form.

He has had too many injuries, too many close calls with death or worse. They have made him wary. But he trusts the sailor. Wind is nothing if not kind. 

He is safe here. 

The knowledge hits him harder than any monster blow.

You are safe here.

Something breathtakingly warm wells up in him at that thought, similar to the feeling he has been basking in since he awakened, yet unique all the same.

“Alright, old man?” A soft voice asks, now, and Time pries open the eye he hadn’t even registered closing. Warriors grins down at him. 

Time’s soft hum quickly dissolves into a blissful sigh as the captain tucks him more securely into his bed of softness. He allows his eye to slide shut again, his body to relax more fully. He allows the sensations and sounds to envelop him, surround him in warmth and comfort. To pull him down into blessed darkness once more.

“He’s adorable like this,” Wind says, his noisy whisper breaking through the haze. Another giddy giggle bursts forth from him like gurgling water. 

“He is, isn’t he?” It’s Twilight now. Time can imagine the dirt-eating grin on his face, the same one that spreads across Malon’s when she beats him in yet another race around the pasture. “Though I doubt he wants us calling him that.”

There’s a pause, then in a disapproving whisper-yell, “and he definitely doesn’t want that. Put that slate of yours away, champion!”

There is the distinct sound of a camera snapping a photograph. Laughter ripples through the group like the wind through the trees. 

“When he kills you all, don’t come running to me,” Twilight says, though there’s laughter in his voice too.

Traitors, Time thinks, lazily, all of them.

“Oh, come on, Twi. Look at him! He wouldn’t hurt us! Not like this anyway.”

“Then, you haven’t gotten a good look at his wings,” Legend pipes up, drily. “They’ve got eyes on them, you know.”

“Ooh.” Time can feel Wind’s breath ghosting him as the boy leans down to get a closer look. “I wonder if they make up for the one he lost. I’ll bet he can see us through ‘em!”

If Time wasn’t quite so tired (or finding this quite so exasperatingly comical) he would correct that assumption. But then again, what’s the harm in allowing a little rumor like that to spread and strike some healthy fear into the hearts of his would-be blackmailers? 

“Come on guys.” Warriors’ voice rises above the hushed clamor of the others, all bickering about Time’s ability, or lack thereof to watch them through his wings. “He’s exhausted. Let him sleep.”

The heroes try to quiet, though their efforts are about as successful as Time suspected they would be. Whispers and barely stifled laughter continue to weave their way gallantly through the night.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

…though a few more telltale clicks of Wild’s slate cement his decision to play a prank on him as soon as he regains his strength. 

“He’s so small,” someone murmurs, now as the hubbub begins to subside, sleepiness getting the best of even the most energetic among them. Sky, Time’s mind slowly supplies, putting a face to the voice that wafts gently around him. “To think, he healed us all while in that form…”

“Something you get to know very quickly about Sprite is that size doesn’t bother him,” Warriors replies, fondness in his tone. “Even as a kid, he could take out groups of monsters much larger than what we faced today.”

Sky chuckles, soft and almost sad. Time is too far gone to decipher why. 

But he can’t deny the sudden rush of warmth when the chosen hero whispers, “thank you…little one.” And when, in the next moment, Sky ghosts a finger over the very tip of his wings, Time is unafraid beneath his touch. 

He drifts off not long afterward to the sound of tired murmurs, the crackling of the campfire, and a soft song played upon an ocarina, the notes drifting up toward the moon.

[mollymauksworld]

Hercules | 1997

For a true hero isn't measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.

[spider-gem]

One thing I absolutely love about the Wizard of Oz is how each of the main characters have to go on a journey in order to gain something they already have.

I did a rewatch of the film after seeing Wicked: Part One, and surely enough my Wicked brainrot melted (ha. hehe. pun unintended at first. but not anymore) and blended with a newfound Wizard of Oz brainrot. Because of this, I’ve been thinking about both a LOT and wanted to share an epiphany I’ve had for a while.

The Scarecrow claims that he is brainless and can’t make up his mind or come up with an intelligent thought because of this. And sure, he has straw stuffed in his head, not brains. However, his actions in the movie show otherwise. We seem him effectively come up with a strategy to taunt the trees into throwing their apples they weren’t willing to give up, effectively giving Dorothy the food she needs. Later on in the movie, it’s his idea to cut down the chandelier in order to get away from the Wicked Witch’s guards. He has multiple clever ideas throughout the film, and if you know what happens in the second act of Wicked (don’t worry, no spoilers here if you don’t) you know the extent of his intelligent plans.

So, is he truly brainless?

The Tinman claims he doesn’t have a heart, and therefore cannot feel love, joy, etc. And sure, bang on his chest and hear for yourself: it’s hallow. However, it’s hard to buy that he can’t feel emotions when he so clearly does throughout the movie. If you plan on watching the movie, pay attention to his face. Our metal friend is crying in almost every situation. He cries when Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion fall asleep in the poppy field, he cries when Dorothy and Toto are taken by the flying monkeys, he cries when he meets the Wizard. You can even see he even cries after the Wicked witch melts. Seems very sensitive for someone without a heart and the ability to feel. He also immediately agrees to help Dorothy get to the Emerald City after seeing the Wicked Witch threaten her ONCE.

So, is he truly heartless?

The Cowardly Lion claims that he has no courage. This is easy to believe when we see how frightened he is at all times. However, courage isn’t measured by how reckless someone is. It’s measured by doing the deed that frightens you. This is something we see the Lion do every time he’s on screen. He’s terrified of leaving the forest, but he does it anyway. He almost turns away from meeting the Wizard, but he does it anyway. He’s scared shizless of facing the Wicked Witch- they ALL are- but he does it anyway. He doesn’t want to let down Dorothy, but he puts aside his fear to save her.

So, is he truly missing his courage?

And finally, Dorothy searches for a way home. It is revealed at the end of the movie that she had the power to return home with her all along, on her feet. So why was this journey necessary and why did Glinda wait until the end to tell Dorothy this?

The group of four seek out the Wizard for something he was never able to give them. He’s a fraud, of course, but that’s beside the point. The point is, they already have what they yearned for. The Scarecrow has intelligence, Tinman has human emotions, the Lion has courage, and Dorothy has the power to get herself home. The journey seems like it was all for nothing, but that is simply not true.

If Dorothy never started her journey, the Scarecrow would still be tied to that post and would never learn that he had the intelligence he yearned for if he never used it. The Tinman would still be rusted and frozen, never learning that he does have the ability to feel and care for others. The Lion would still be alone in his habitat and never be encouraged to face his fears. And Dorothy would have never learned that there is strength and power that she never knew is within her. She’s no longer just a little girl from a farm in Kansas - she is a hero and she is the reason she can get back home.

And THAT is an important message of the Wizard of Oz. You’ll never find your strength if you don’t look within yourself and test it. You just need to step out of your comfort zone in order to find yourself. In turn, you can help others do the same. And yes, sometimes it takes the power of friendship and encouragement to find your intelligence, empathy, courage, and power.

[nd-of-a-manatee]

I know this isn’t quite how ranks work in Psychonauts canon, just go with it.

[Image ID: The following is rendered in fuzzy digital pastel. Razputin Aquato–in his late teens, tall and skinny–lies breathless on his back on the ground, covered in sweat. He’s wearing sweatpants, a striped undershirt, and sneakers. His hair is disheveled, pushed back by his signature goggles. One of his eyes is a little higher than the other, now that he’s older. He stares upward with eyes wide, at his wit’s end. He lies in a white space, his colors graded dull blue. The foreboding cyan shadow of a three-digit number is projected over him: 206. End ID]

Raz has a problem.

He trains so hard to rank up his prowess as a psychic. He’s been training since the day he learned what a Psychonaut is. Now that he’s one of them, he sees diminishing returns for his efforts. That’s normal, they say. It gets harder over time. But he’s only 15, and it hasn’t changed in months. He’s way behind the other cadets his age, all approaching the 300s in their psychic specialities. Here he is stuck at 206.

This isn’t normal.

It’s not just about the number. There isn’t supposed to be a ceiling. A person can always improve, always extend themself to reach closer to their full potential. His mentors–his heroes, all well into the 1000s themselves–gave him a chance to be a Psychonaut because they saw so much of that potential in him. They were impressed that he picked up his first set of powers so quickly and used them to save the day nearly by himself–twice. What if that was the trick? He picks up a new discipline right away, then can’t advance it past a certain point. Hydrokinesis should be what he’s good at, but he’s barely better with it than anything else. That’s it. This is his potential. It was all a trick.

He lies awake at night, frantically weighing in anything that could be related to why. Anything he could do about it. He has often looked back on himself and thought that autism or ADHD or both could explain whatever being an enthusiastic little psychic nerd couldn’t. What if this is part of that? What if he can’t change it? His heart sinks.

He can’t hide it. They’ll all find out what he really is. What will they do if he can’t live up to the position he’s been awarded?

An old anxiety stirs. He doesn’t belong here.

Suddenly, Raz can’t concentrate. His performance falls below even his mediocre rank in practice, in study, in everything. He can’t even walk without tripping. His peers and mentors notice, though he insists that he’s fine.

It reaches a point where a couple of his teachers stop in their busy schedules and call him to sit down with them. That’s when the truth comes out. He tells them everything.

He waits nervously for their response.

They answer easily and say that he’s already proven his worth as a Psychonaut beyond any kind of rank or measure of raw power. His sense of duty, determination, willingness to learn from his mistakes, inventiveness, and compassion are what maximize the effectiveness of his psychic abilites–not to mention his unique skills as an acrobatic. If strength were all that mattered, none of them would be worthy of the abilities they wield.

[Image ID: Raz sits up. The hole in the zero makes it look like the shadow has retreated until it’s almost all the way off of him, lingering at the top of his head. His eyebrows are raised, but he’s calmer–having made an epiphany. End ID]

He hadn’t thought of it like that.

After some rest, Raz goes looking for new psychic sensitivities–not in a desperate attempt to find the thing that will bring him up to par, but with all the curiosity of an adventurer in search of new discoveries. By the end of the year, he has achieved adequate command of a wide, wide range of disciplines and has begun experimenting with using them in tandem. “Power juggling” is a difficult art for most psychics. It’s easy to get overwhelmed and lose control. As it turns out, Raz thrives in that kind of chaos and is able to compartmentalize his focus enough to practically create new powers unto themselves, if for a very short time. He shakes the dust off of his acrobatics. It’s no longer a grueling requirement to please his family. It’s his now. Fun and challenging, a test of dexterity and flow. He quickly renews his skills and finds new ways to wrap his powers around them. The other cadets come and watch him practice just to see what wild shit he’s up to that day.

He feels alive. He feels like himself, now more than ever.

[Image ID: Raz sprints out from under the shadow, turning to raise a middle finger at it with gleeful disdain. End ID]

[Image ID: The story shifts to a comic book sequence, also graded blue-green. Morceau Oleander has a green psychic shield raised to protect him, Milla Vodello, Adam Gette, and Norma Natividad from blue psychic needles that threaten to skewer them from above. The others use their own powers to try to fight the needles off, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. Someone talks over them. “Miserable fools.” A lanky white woman in a housecoat, plain shirt, sweats, and slippers with long billowing silver hair commands the scene from the center of some kind of pump room. Her arms are outstretched like a conductor. Her needles press buttons on control panels and hover menacingly over tied and gagged hostages. “I’ve had to devote my life to perfection to get this far,” she declares with triumphant superiority. We see her up close. She’s in her late 50s with sharp facial features and a high hairline, and she’s wearing a small earring on each ear. Her teeth gleam in a wicked smile as she shouts. “You have no idea of the sacrifice. The fortitude. I alone am qualified to correct the modern world’s failure to compete. Content weaklings like you don’t stand a chance. Just look at you.” She turns to face a shadowed corridor within a tangle of pipes behind her. “You can’t even sneak up properly.” Someone with angular shin-high boots runs down some steps deep in the corridor. That person– wearing black gloves and Sasha Nein’s old green jacket–uses orange psi power to draw water in the shape of a hand from a pocket-sized bottle. The hydro hand leaps forward toward the woman with its fingers outstretched. A coil of orange lighting snakes around it. Then, the hand freezes into an electrified claw. The hand is suddenly shattered on a horizontal needle that pops into existence. The woman sneers. “Ha!” The person uses the needle to swing forward and lunge out from the shadows feet-first. It’s Raz in his cool spy mission outfit. His boot folds the old woman in half by the stomach. She makes the dumbest surprised face, having been caught in her most confident moment. Raz looks determined and focused. Ice shards tinkle in the air around them. Raz then has her pinned on the floor. He has produced a helmet that looks like a Geodesic Psychoisolation Chamber from his jacket and plunked it on her head. “Did I break anything?” he asks, deadly serious. “My worldview is shattered,” she answers, bewildered. Raz pops into his excitable mode. “Oh! We can help with that.” He takes out a psi-portal. She turns to him and says, “Ok.” End ID]

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I keep rewording my commentary on this idea, so here’s the jumble:

I love the idea of protagonist syndrome. Main character kiddo is the specialest one of all who overcomes impossible odds or has a big cool unique ability. You see it all over magical/superhero kid cartoons. And then, that all collapses when they get older and change or can’t measure up and have to learn how to detach from the initial self-image and explore who they want to be (Steven Universe & Future, Venture Bros, my actual life experience if you can’t guess). I know it’s a little weird to poke holes in fun kids’ media and should be done with care. But I’m super interested in how protag syndrome applies to real life post-straight-A/sports star/Good Kid TM imposter syndrome. I wanna use this kinda thing as a framework to explore ways to be kinder to and happier with ourselves.

And just look at the boi. He’s doing so good.

Special guest appearance by the Noodler’s mean aunt, the Needler.

[Image ID: The Needler–the woman described before–is depicted in an initial sketch in black and white. She looks annoyed, standing with her hands and fingers splayed out in an “evil wizard” kind of gesture. The image is a little simplified. She has no nose. End ID]

[i-never-forgot]

guys. I have probably talked about this before but…what if dusknoir ended up more touch-traumatized than hero/partner?

okay so we consider the fact that hero/partner have already been through so many perilous situations (ranging from the mild danger of drowzee roughing them up to grovyle literally almost killing them of course). they’re used to that by now. yes of course dusknoir’s betrayal is a terrible horrible thing to go through and there would be a lot of emotional and trust-issue repercussions from that, but…if they reconcile what if hero/partner, once getting over that aspect of it, are just kind of chill with him again? as far as touching goes, anyway—they forgave drowzee and grovyle and seemed entirely comfortable around them, so I don’t think it’s out of the question.

but dusknoir? who spent an indeterminate amount of time as primal dialga’s henchman doing his bidding? who likely has enough mercenary experience to take out a legend if absolutely pressed? he’s familiar with pain and death, knows it intimately. he knows exactly what he’s capable of, and he ends up hyper-aware of his body—and his hands in particular—after his change of heart.

he tried to have these innocents executed. he didn’t do it, and it wasn’t on his order, but he was going to stand by and have his minions bloody their paws with it (perhaps bc he couldn’t bring himself to harm them?)—he did indeed wound them, he fought them, used his size and strength and power to try to crush them just bc he was afraid of the thought of having something better at the cost of his own life. he had every intention to snuff them out as a means to an end, with little remorse (at least at first).

so even if hero/partner forgive him, I don’t think he would trust himself for a long time. he would struggle to let himself close, even if he longs for closeness. his hands shake whenever they get too close. he has to reteach himself how to measure his strength, how to be gentle, and he’s so tense and rigid all over even if he’s just handing something to one of them (perhaps even grovyle and/or celebi too) that most of the time he either just sets it down for them to pick up or they just say never mind so he can relax again. he keeps his distance. he tries not to touch them unless absolutely necessary.

even if they ask him to, whether it’s for cuddles after a nightmare or just to help them out with carrying something, it takes him a long long time to feel even remotely comfortable doing so. he wants to help, he wants to be able to show his affection—or receive it for goodness’ sake, I’ll bet that old man is more touch-starved than any one of them—but he’s just so so scared of messing up everything again, of losing their trust unintentionally this time, and never getting another chance to fix it.

idk man I’m just getting emotional about this big ol’ guy🥺I just wanna give him a nice long hug