#anyway lemme write

[presrotte]

here n thinking...

[hyakunana]

"My friend, my partner… my Guardian."

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother��he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[actuallyitsstar]

grief is not a feeling, but a neighborhood. this is where i come from. everyone i love still lives here. // (insp.)

[bambiraptorx]

[I.D. Two digital drawings of the transendental DJ from the music video for Transcendental Cha Cha Cha by Tom Cardy. It is a cartoonish being with a torso shaped like an upside-down tear drop and a long skirt/tail patterned like the night sky. Its face is also patterned similarly. One eye is shaped like a crescent and the other is a circle, its mouth a sent in a jagged smile (these facial features are in white). It wears headphones that are the same red as its suit jacket, with yellow and orange accents. that match its undershirt and tie. Its white hands are spread wide and not attached to its body, resembling floating gloves. The background is a hazy pattern of blue, pink, orange, and green. One version of the DJ has lines, the other does not. End I.D.]

Not gonna lie I'm like mildly obsessed with this dude lol. this music video went hard

[notherpuppet]

It's so cute that you're Radioapple is QPR!

I like this ship in both romantic and QPR way, so whatever you do with them is cool.

Also, is your Lucifer bi/pan? or maybe he's on aro spectrum?

Yeah! I think QPRs are really special and I don't see very many representations of them being developed in mainstream media, so it's really fun to seize an opportunity to write a QPR story with characters I'm unhealthily obsessed with LOL

I love seeing a bunch of different interpretations of fandom ships because I'm a big ass fangirl so yknow I love to eat the dynamics uppp!!

In My Deer Nanny AU (and most of the time in other fanart) I write and headcanon Lucifer as pansexual, panromantic, and poly.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

tidbit tuesday tidbit tuesday tidbit tuesday!! this is actually more like TEASER tuesday bc I will be finishin' this one SOON! also this was a prompt @trevination GRACIOUSLY let me steal so rest comin' post haste!!! TY AGAIN LOVE!!!

"Ponyboy Michael. How many times have I told you not to draw on yourself? Or to let anyone else use you like a canvas? I swear to god, kid, one day you're gonna get ink poisonin' 'n you better not come runnin' to me." He sighs, twists Pony's arm gently to make sure there aren't any more doodles dottin' his body.

"Sorry, Dar. It won't happen again." Pony tries to jerk out of Darry's grip 'n doesn't manage to gain even an inch. Darry raises an eyebrow 'n Pony shoots him a big, innocent grin. From the corner of his eye he can see Dallas tense slightly.

"Well, at least let me help you clean this up."

"No, I got it really-" Darry runs a thumb over the drawin' 'n it doesn't budge. But Pony flinches. Hard.

Oh Glory God.

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis." Pony squeezes his face up 'n hisses like he'd been branded. Darry's voice is dangerously calm. "Is this a goddamn tattoo?"

[crybaby-bkg]

I loveee the concept of reincarnation bc it’s just so comforting!!!

oh to be reincarnated lovers with Bakugou where you find each other every life time and leave a memory of the other to find in the next lifetime. You see each other in a new lifetime, drawn to each other, swearing familiarity even though your minds disagree. But it’s something deeper within you that knows each other, misses the others embrace, and you can’t figure out why.

There’s a famous painting of someone who looks suspiciously like you made in the 1600s by some tortured artist, the muse a lover he had lost years before. There’s a statue that looks just like Bakugou from the 1800s, who everyone thought to be created after Apollo, but you beg to differ. There are letters found between two lovers, one gone off to war and the other at home, their exchange of love something poets discuss in contemporary times. Theres even skeletons found embracing each other, with one’s head tucked into the others neck.

And for some reason, every time, these figments of love appeal to you deeper than anyone else around you. They’re so familiar, and you think you might be going crazy when flashes of memories start to plague you.

Sitting in a darkly lit room, a slate of white marble in front of you, a point chisel in hand. There’s a blond man sitting behind the marble, with a sly grin, as your hands raise to start chipping away at its flawless perfection.

Sitting at home, writing away with a quilled pen to a lover you miss. Kissing the edge of the paper and pulling away to find it stained with red from your lips.

Laying in the soft grass, your face hidden in a strong neck as heavy winds start to take over you. Your arms entangled in another’s, tilting your face up to kiss a blond, stubbled jaw.

When Bakugou tells you he remembers the same things, you wonder if you’re both just on a bad trip from a drug you don’t remember taking. But you carve your names in tree trunks and wonder if you’ll find find it again hundreds of years later, if you’ll see him again, if you’ll create another piece of your unyielding love on every crevice of the earth.

[aquaquadrant]

Title: flickering

Warnings: Hearing voices similar to intrusive thoughts (the voices are from sentient fire, not from the character’s own mind), pyromania, session 3 spoilers

~*~

Tango might be hearing things.

That is, beyond what the rest of his friends have already been joking about this entire session. The secret task bestowed upon him seemed like pure hilarity at first: pretend to have an imaginary friend. And he had to go all out, too, having imaginary conversations in the presence of other people. He wasn’t confident enough in his improv skills to pull it off without some kind of prop, though, so he’d assigned the role of imaginary friend to a torch in his inventory.

Torchy, a new best friend for the resident blaze hybrid on the server. Hilarious.

Except, as the hours went on… carrying Torchy around and randomly placing it down… hosting one-sided conversations with a piece of burning wood while his friends watched on with baffled amusement… it started to get a little less hilarious. Because he started to imagine that he could actually hear Torchy talking back to him.

Looks bad. Burn it. Kill him.

Just pleasant little things like that. It made for great conversation fodder; nothing turned heads on this server faster than a randomly overheard, “No, no, we can’t kill him!” And it was funny to carry on that kind of dialogue, chastising a flaming stick for its apparent bloodlust. The looks on his friends’ faces were priceless.

But at the end of the session, after Tango had been found out and failed his task, after everyone bid their farewells and went their separate ways to end the session… he hears it again; a flickering whisper of a voice in his ears.

Burn it.

It startles Tango so badly, his blaze rods ignite. “Aaagh- who? What?!” He spins around, flames spitting.

“Huh?” Skizz pokes his head up from behind their little clump of chests, his wing flared out in surprise. “What happened?”

Tango clutches his pounding heart. “Did you- did you say something, Skizz?” he asks breathlessly.

“What, just now? No?” Skizz frowns, then his eyes widen. “Oh, wait, I get it…” He chuckles. “Very funny dude, but uh, you can drop the ‘imaginary friend’ thing now.”

Burn him. Kill him.

There it is again. “No, I’m not…” Tango hesitates, glancing around warily. “You seriously can’t hear that?”

Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.

Now Skizz looks a little concerned, rising to his feet. “Uh- no? What?” He takes a few steps towards Tango, holding out a hand. “You okay, buddy?”

Tango rakes his claws through his hair. “Th- the whispering, the…” Swallowing, he creeps a bit closer to Skizz- and as he does so, he happens to move closer to a random torch. The voice gets louder.

Free us. Join us. Let it all burn.

There’s a chunk of solid ice in Tango’s stomach. “I think it’s coming from the torches,” he whispers.

Skizz stares at him for a moment before he sighs bemusedly, shaking his head. “Oh, brother. You’ve been talking to yourself all session, dude, I think you’re starting to hear things.” He claps a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “Get some rest, buddy, and I’ll see you back here next week, alright?”

Skizz doesn’t hear it. Tango makes himself laugh. “Right, yeah. You’re right. See ya.”

With a parting smile, Skizz logs off.

Tango waits. Soon enough, the voice returns. The whispering is now a chant, a dull roar echoing in his skull.

He’s gone. Burn it. Burn it all. Sets us free, let us spread. Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.

Tango’s heart is in his throat. He can see it, in his mind’s eye; the soft pink cherry blossoms engulfed in flame, a ring of smoke outlining the entire island… his inner fire thrums with want, with need.

Yes, yes, burn it all…

The smell of burning snaps him out of his trance. His clawed fingertips are pinching a cherry blossom from a low-hanging branch, a trail of smoke rising between them. Wait, when did he walk over to the tree? Quickly plucking the flower, he incinerates it in his clenched fist, the flame extinguished as soon as it’d ignited.

And now he’s got a handful of ash. Great.

Okay, that’s it- he’s gotta get off this crazy server. It’s all these stupid tasks! They’re totally messing with his head. The secrecy, the deception, the mind games- he just needs a break. He needs to go back to something familiar, some place where things make sense.

Tapping his communicator, he brings up a portal.

Tango steps through it into Hermitcraft, into blue flames and his dungeon master’s robes. He blinks, acclimating to the change of light. He’s in the underbelly of Decked Out 2, of course- most of his time this week has been spent working on the redstone for level four. And over the months, he’s taken care to light everything up (because a single creeper in the skadoodler could derail his entire operation here) so there are torches everywhere…

And he hears nothing.

Just the idle sounds of the dungeon above him. The occasional warden sniff or ravager growl, bats squeaking in the dark. A slime slapping against stone somewhere in the distance. He can even hear the ambient flickering of the countless torches around him, but no freaky voices accompany it.

Tango exhales heavily. It was just the Secret Life server messing with his head, after all. Relieved, he ignites a rocket to take off, whirling through the air in the tight hair-pin turns required to escape from the dungeon’s inner workings. He swoops into his storage room and dives into the bubble-vator, arriving swiftly back in the citadel.

Hopping off the platform and into the air, Tango glides toward his private entrance to the lobby. He needs to go cover up the barrel at the start so he can make a couple changes to the dungeon. Nothing major, maybe just an extra warden or two. Ideas for names are already flashing through his mind. Debating whether to go intimidating or silly, he’s so deep in thought as he passes through the lobby that he almost doesn’t notice it at first. But as he walks past the soul flames, he hears it.

The flicker of a familiar voice- though more haunting, now, almost mournful- whispering in his ears.

Join us. Burn them. Eat them all.

~*~

[tunastime]

SEVEN!

hi shep!! number 7, okay!!

oh. I um...

I don't think I can do that.

(send me a number between 1-100 I guess? LOL go for it)

[zombiec4ke]

guys...

Ok here me out...eyefestation x blind/hard of seeing reader

[potatosaresweet]

They stayed like that for a long time, Xie Lian's face pressed against Hua Cheng's shoulder, arms wrapped around his back tightly as if he was afraid the Ghost King would vanish into thin air.

Which, to be fair, he already had. Twice.

Hua Cheng returned the embrace just as strongly, breathing in Xie Lian's scent, one hand slowly stroking his head. In this mountain, it was just the two of them embracing under the warm glow of the thousands of lanterns he'd released. He hadn't expected Xie Lian to find him in the middle of releasing them, but seeing his prince sprint towards him and cling onto him with such desperation and joy was enough to make up for messing up the surprise.

It seems Gege missed me, he was about to say, to lighten the mood, when he realised something was off.

Xie Lian was shaking, still holding onto Hua Cheng like a lifeline, his soft hands gripping onto the man's robes as if he thought he'd vanish as soon as he let go.

"..Dianxia?" Xie Lian's voice was muffled, as he refused to lift his face from where it was burried. "Never again."

"..Gege-"

"Never again, do you hear me? Never do anything like that again, I can't do this again, please San Lang, promise me you won't go away again because of m-"

Hua Cheng gently lifted his hands from where they were wrapped around Xie Lian's waist and placed them around his prince's face, softly craddling it. Beautiful golden eyes met his own. He could see his own reflection in them staring back at him.

I won't lie to him, he thought. If it's the only way to keep him safe I'd do it again and again, a hundrent times over. I don't regret it. To die for him is my greatest honour.

But when he gazed at those teary eyes, looking at him with such adoration and relief and grief and pain, when he thought of the small cottage Xie Lian had built just for the two of them and the way he run and fell in his arms merely a moment ago, the words wouldn't leave his mouth.

I shouldn't lie to him. If push comes to shove I will do it again to protect him. But.. I will make sure it never gets to that point again. I will not add to his misery, I will not leave him alone again.

"I will do my best not to, dianxia."

Xie Lian didn't seem quite satisfied with that answer. Still holding onto him, he said, more firmly than before, "No. Don't just try. Promise it won't happen again."

Hua Cheng smiled, wiping a tear off Xie Lian's face. "Doesn't gege already know i succeed at everything I try?" That earmed him a soft chuckle, and Hua Cheng thought that this sound alone made the past 800 years worth it.

"I promise."he whispered, and lowered his head, his lips finally meeting Xie Lian's.

They'd spent 800 years apart. They now had an eternity waiting ahead of them

[skyward-floored]

Steak dinner

(Hdw au) I know you all were probably expecting more angst from this au, and while this does have a little, I also swerved into goofiness with this one. Link shows some more dragon tendencies... in front of an audience. lol.

————————————————————

“Captain.”

“...”

“Uh, Captain? Link?”

“...”

“Link? Hello?”

The older hero still doesn’t reply, staring blankly at his sword in his lap. He’d been cleaning it, but had stopped a few minutes ago, and was now just staring off into space, eyes distant.

Tune leans over and snaps his fingers in his face, and that finally brings him out of it, the captain practically jumping out of his seat at the noise.

“There you are,” Tune says once the captain calms down and puts the dagger away. “Glad to have you back in the land of the living. You know you’ve been acting kind of weird today, right?”

Link blinks at him, then shrugs. “Guess I’ve just been busy.”

Tune narrows his eyes. “Uh huh. The thing is, you’re always busy, but you don’t always act like this. Which means... something’s up,” Tune deduces, and Link’s expression turns wearied for about two seconds before he fixes his face.

“It’s just the usual, sailor. Don’t worry about it,” Link murmurs.

“The usual with you is like ten different things.”

Link looks away.

“Captain? ...Please?” Tune tries.

Link just shakes his head. “I really have just been busy, Tune. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Tune sighs and is about to argue more, but then a low growl floats through the air, making him pause. Link freezes, and Tune looks around in confusion before he zeroes in on the captain’s stomach.

The growl rings out from it again, and Tune gives Link a sharp look, the captain quickly averting his gaze.

“Captain. When was the last time you ate anything?” Tune asks slowly.

“I’ve been busy,” Link mutters, “I didn’t have time to eat lunch.”

Tune gives him a poke. “And what about breakfast?”

“...maybe also breakfast.”

“I don’t actually remember you eating dinner last night either,” Mask adds as he walks by, and Link sends a glare in his direction.

“You haven’t eaten in almost a day?” Tune asks sharply.

Link shrugs, shifting in his seat. “...Something like that.”

“It’s been longer?!”

Link shrugs again, and Tune stands up and matches over to him, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet.

“Come on captain, we’re getting you food,” he says in as much of a big-brother voice as he can muster. “I don’t care if you’re busy or whatever, you can’t just not eat.”

“I’m busy Tune. And besides, I’m not even hungry,” Link begins to argue, but then his stomach growls again, even louder than before.

“...Right.”

Tune wastes no time in dragging the older Link across camp, ignoring his weak protests and never relinquishing his grip. Amused glances are cast at them as Tune drags Link by the wrist, and Tune notices with no small satisfaction that the captain’s ears are turning rather red. And when he finally reaches his target, Link’s protests sputter and die.

Tetra is sitting at a fire and already eating something, and as he trots up, she looks over and raises an eyebrow.

“Would you mind making sure he stays here?” Tune asks, and Tetra shrugs, picking something out of her teeth.

“Sure swabbie. But what’s the occasion?”

“This dope hasn’t eaten in at least a day,” Mask pipes up, and Tetra gives the oldest Link a Look. He starts off holding his ground, but nobody can stand up to Tetra’s Look, not even a hero of courage, and he soon wilts under it.

“I’ll watch him.”

“Thanks Tetra!” Tune smiles, and Mask pulls the captain down to sit, he and Tetra squishing him between them.

Tune nods, satisfied the captain is suitably trapped, then scampers off to go find a reasonable amount of food for him. It’s about dinner time anyway, so hunting down some food isn’t too hard, luckily. The only real problem is that nothing Tune can find is particularly filling. Plus he’s pretty sure the captain needs meat, he’s part dragon after all.

Does he need a lot of meat? Has he even been eating enough meat for a regular person? I wonder if Impa has any clue about what he should be eating...

Zelda walks by as he’s puzzling through all this, and seeing him look rather lost, asks what’s wrong. Tune explains the problem, and Zelda’s brows lower as she hears that Link hasn’t eaten in at least a day. A look equally worried and determined lands on her face, and she promises she’ll be back with some meat before striding off. Leaving Tune blinking in surprise behind her.

He gathers some other food while he waits, but only has to wait a few minutes before the princess returns, a large, uncooked steak in hand.

“Wh— where did you get that?” Tune asks in astonishment, and Zelda smiles.

“I have my ways. I only wish I’d gotten a cooked one, but I suppose this will do.“

Tune leads the way back to the campfire where Tetra is, and sees that Lana’s joined their group, telling them all some kind of tale. Link still looks weary, but there’s a small smile on his face as he listens, and Tune is relieved at the way he seems to have perked up a little.

He’s been so gloomy lately... it’s nice seeing him at least a little happier.

Zelda sits down next to Lana to listen to her story, and Tune pauses in his musings on Link and of how to cook the meat, setting the plate down for a mere moment as he begins to be drawn into the tale.

He should’ve known better.

Link’s nose twitches, and his eyes zero in on the meat, pupils dilating. It happens so fast Tune almost misses it, but one minute the meat is sitting on the plate, and the next it’s gone, and the captain is swallowing something with a satisfied look on his face.

Tune stares.

Mask stares.

Princess Zelda and Lana also stare, stunned into silence.

Tetra looks delighted.

“What?” Link asks as they all stare at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That... uh. That was raw,” Tune says, equal wonder and disgust coming through in his voice.

“Completely raw,” Tetra continues, a grin on her face. “Good goddesses Captain, I knew you were hungry, but even I know not to just eat a raw steak.”

“In one bite,” Mask says with a bit of wonder.

Link blinks, and looks down at his hands. A look of pure mortification forms on his face as he realizes exactly what he just did, and he slowly looks around at their group, his entire face flushing as his gaze comes to rest on Princess Zelda.

...Who looks like she’s trying her best not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Lana is giggling uproariously into her hands beside her, but somehow Zelda manages to hold it together, the slightest twitch of her lip the only thing betraying her mirth. Tune wouldn’t even have picked up on that if he wasn’t so good at picking expressions out from card players.

“I suppose this means we don’t need to spend any time cooking,” she says remarkably straight-faced, and the captain groans, putting his face into his hands.

“I’m... uh,” he begins, ears turning pink. “I’m sorry, I have no clue... I was only going to take a bite, I didn’t realize—”

“Relax dragon-boy, you carnivores need your meat,” Tetra drawls.

Everyone freezes, and swings their heads towards Tetra, eyes going wide. Link’s blush swerves into the color draining from his face, and Zelda and Lana exchange sharp looks.

Tetra raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Who... told you about the... dragon thing?” Tune asks, lowering his voice at the end. He certainly didn’t, and as far as he knows, it hasn’t left this circle of people. But if Tetra knows, then it must have somehow, which means... who else knows?

Tetra hums, and flicks dust off her vest. “Nobody. I have my ways, and a pirate never reveals her secrets.”

“Secrets, sure. I bet you just heard Link’s sneezing the other week,” Mask says flatly, and Tetra gives him her signature wink.

“Perhaps. But if you’re worried about it getting out, don’t. I don’t go around spreading rumors,” she says with a steady look at Link. “Relax, Scales.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you found out,” Tune says. Tetra looks at him, and he knows she heard the seriousness in his voice. This is information that needs to not be spread.

“Relax, Link. I just heard the general yelling at Volga in that battle the other day, I put two and two together.”

Somehow their spot goes even more quiet at her words, and Tune sighs at the look on the captain’s face. His father’s identity weighs on him heavily, but his mother’s... it’s almost worst, in a way. Tune isn’t sure of who knows about that part of the story, but he’s pretty it’s just himself and Link.

And Lana probably, but she knows everything.

Tetra doesn’t seem to be aware of that particular tidbit though, and she crosses her arms with a smirk.

“Yeah yeah, I know, it’s rough. You’re not the only one who’s found out some family thing about yourself and had your world turned on its head,” she hums, and Lana gives her an interested look.

“Oh... that’s right. I’d forgotten you didn’t know of your birthright as the princess,” she says, and Tetra gives her a sharp look.

“Yeah, and don’t go spreading that around,” she snaps.

Link looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here as the conversation goes from family secrets to Tetra and Lana having an argument on princess-y matters, and Tune pats him on the shoulder.

“Do you need anything else to eat, or was that enough?” he asks. Link shrugs, looking at his feet.

Tune frowns at the lack of response, and leans over and grabs the plate he’d gotten with some other food, handing it to Link.

“She won’t tell anyone,” he reassures as Link reluctantly takes the plate. “And she only knows about Volga. I can tell.”

“It seems like everyone’s been able to just figure this out except for me,” Link mutters, and Tune hears the bitterness in it.

“Most of us hadn’t met you or Volga before the war started,” he reminds him, Tetra and Lana still loudly arguing behind them. He gives them an exasperated look, then turns back to Link. “Nobody knew you were similar because nobody had met the both of you.“

Link stares at his plate. “And how similar am I to Volga?”

His voice is more fragile now, and Tune takes his hand, looking Link in the eye.

“Hey. You’re not like Volga,” he says firmly. “You’re not either of your parents. You and Volga have similarities because he’s your father, but his actions are his, not yours. You’re your own person, Link, Impa and Volga don’t define who you are. Only you do. And whatever you’re thinking about in regards to you and Volga being similar... don’t, okay? You have the same blood, but that doesn’t mean you have the same morals or anything,” he finishes softly.

Link looks at him, and he gives a silent nod, Tune squeezing his hand.

He doesn’t know if he got through to the older hero at all, but he can hope at least. Talks like this work on Tetra about half of the time, and if Tune can get lucky and get through her hard-headed snark, he can hopefully get through Link’s defenses.

“Thanks Tune,” Link says as he picks at more food, pointedly taking small bites. “For... all of this.”

“No problem, captain,” Tune replies with a smile. “Just... know that Mask is probably going to spread the story of the raw steak through the entire camp.”

The captain groans, but it’s more good-natured than anything. “I’m not going to be able to live that down, am I.”

“Nope. But maybe next time you’ll eat something before you get so hungry you eat an entire raw steak in one bite,” Tune says slyly, and Link snorts, giving him a light elbow.

He goes back to eating, looking much better than before, and laughs along with the others when Mask joins the argument between Tetra and Lana, the former of whom doesn’t seem to appreciate Mask’s attitude. She lunges for him and Mask shrieks, but there’s a devious look in his eyes as he tries desperately to avoid Tetra’s noogie.

He smirks at Tune when the captain laughs again, and Tune grins in return, watching the two of them wrestle.

Tetra sends him a wink as well, and they all spend the rest of the evening in easy comradery, teasing Link over his taste of raw meat, Lana telling more tales, Zelda moving to sit beside Link.

Tune looks back on that evening years later as one of the happiest of the entire war.

[aroaceleovaldez]

non-exhaustive list of canon powers Nico di Angelo either has shown or is heavily implied to have:

Shadow-travel

Manipulation of shadows/darkness (also possibly use of shadows as a pocket-dimension a la Magicians using the Duat in The Kane Chronicles)

Becoming intangible/shadows

Complete control over skeletons/bones (dead or alive, including summoning, reanimation, and/or changing shape of them) and being able to sense their presence

Summoning, reanimating, commanding, and dispelling the dead/undead (Skeletons, zombies, ghosts, etc & varieties) and being able to sense their presence

Ability to understand/communicate with the dead/undead and potentially other beings of the Underworld

Inherent complete comprehension of Latin

Ability to perceive the usually unperceivable/possibly look upon a deity’s true form without repercussion (at least moreso than the average demigod, though possibly is restricted to chthonic beings) (ex: Tartarus, potentially also interacting with his parents, etc)

Interacting tangibly with ghosts (implied to be a Ghost King thing rather than a Hades/Pluto thing)

Partial or complete immunity to different effects of the Underworld/things within (can consume food/drink of or in the Underworld without repercussions, effects from the Lethe wear off over time instead of being permanent like usual for mortals, etc)

Astral projection/”Walking in dreams”

Dream manipulation and projection (Sending dreams to others, etc.) (presumably includes sharing/projecting dreams with others) alongside inflicting sleep upon others even from a distance.

Illusions

Manipulation of emotions/aura that inflicts specific emotions on others (ex.: radiating fear/death onto enemies)

Projection of emotions and memories onto others (can be so forceful it causes physical damage like a shockwave)

Geokinesis (all forms but also specifically generating black marble) (presumably also specialized control over precious gemstones & non-paper currency)

Temperature manipulation (seemingly only lowering temperature)/creating frost)

Control/manipulation of souls, including living beings (ex: ripping out Bryce Lawrence’s soul)

Perceiving/reading/judging of souls (most likely also a Ghost King thing over Hades/Pluto thing, but possibly both)

Converting living into dead/undead, aka instakill (ex: disintegrating monsters to bone with one touch)

Lowering or manipulation of own vitals (breathing, heart rate, etc)

Death Trance/pseudo-hibernation (possibly also general control over states of consciousness at least for self, in combo with control over vitals & dreams)

Sensing death (impending or when it occurs, sometimes receiving dreams/visions of it occurring)

Able to sense other children of Hades/Pluto (potentially also other chthonic beings in general/able to identify based on sense alone) and also just living beings in general, such as mortals (possibly via souls).

Improved navigation underground/in the Underworld and ability to traverse restricted or normally unnavigable parts of the Underworld

Enhanced strength/abilities when in the Underworld

Inherently unnaturally quiet (possibly able to silence sound on a designated target)

Hiding/shielding self from being perceived (seemingly related to shadows/silence)

[bi-scottsummers]

Hi, hello, just came here to say that I love your fic "trending in Japan". I was wondering if you had headcanons regarding Kenji or Emi or interpersonal relationships and stuff. Many hugs for you.

hi hello, thank you for the encouragement and hugs! After some thought ive realized I do in fact have some hcs about some of the character dynamics in the movie as well as just kenji himself, cause hes captivated my entire brain:

Kenji & Emi

Emi does not have teeth but she does inexplicably have a teething phase. kenji is forced to hide all his (salvaged) fancy cars in the garage bc the corvette's already been chewed to hell and his heart is gonna give out if he has to watch any more classics get wrecked

he reads her bedtime stories. A lot of aesop's fables, because theyre short and fun and hes trying to raise his monster daughter with good morals. emi goes hogwild for these but its unclear if she actually understands what hes saying; kenji's pretty sure she just likes the silly voices he uses for different characters

they go flying together! they go first thing in the morning before breakfast - it helps kenji shake off the grogginess of sleep and emi gets to stretch her wings. shes not able to go very far for very long initially, but as she grows and gets those cardio gainz she almost gets to be quicker than him. they have races and play air tag :)

while she doesnt have the vocal range to speak english herself, it becomes clear that emi does understand it well. (kenji also develops an ear for her chirping/squawks, though body language & facial expressions play a big part in communication for both of them) during her (much later) rebellious phase she'll simply pretend not to know what's being said when kenji is telling her to do something she doesn't wanna do, which frustrates him to no end

Kenji

developed a pretty massive chip on his shoulder after moving to the states. it wasn't just bitterness over his dad staying behind, though that was a part of it. this is canon but he was picked on in school for "how [he talked], how [he looked] and what [he ate]." he felt like he had something to prove to both his father and the world. he threw himself into sports - specifically baseball - and his academics, and he did so well that it forced everyone to shut up about how he was different from them and focus on how he was better than them

^ playing off this: kenji had a bonkers fucking yonkers routine when he was a kid/in highschool. he'd get up hours before school started to practice his swing, go for a ~1hr run, workout, study, etc. He'd go to school, come home, and do it all again. this is exaggerated but my point is that this kid was DETERMINED and had the discipline to see that determination through to the end

didnt have many friends because of all aforementioned things. he had acquaintances, and he was invited to parties and outings and stuff (never went), but he spent most of his free time hanging out with his mom. he never really had a "parents are so embarrassing" phase. he always liked to do anything with his mother: going to the bank, going grocery shopping, watching cheesy telenovelas till ungodly hours in the morning, etc. she was his no.1 supporter, confidant, and best friend

he played for his university's baseball team and got scouted at 19. his mom forced him to finish his bachelor's first so once he graduated with his degree in kinesiology at 21, he was drafted to the dodgers

Kenji & Ami

both of them, up until meeting each other, were totally dedicated to their career (and child) so they had basically 0 time for friends. theyre both borderline losers but theyre juuust good enough at what they do for people to admire them instead of finding them sad and lowkey pathetic

kenji is way more into the idea of being friends than ami is. hes pretty enthusiastic about it; he thinks that they have a kind of rapport, since they share a similar work ethic and are both (unbeknownst to ami) single parents. he calls her to chat abt random things. ami initially isnt superrrr into it; she thinks kenji is kinda lonely and desperate for human connection, & it isnt until her mom points out that she has not spoken to anyone outside of work-related reasons in 10+ years that shes like oh shit, i am also lonely and desperate for human connection. so she grudgingly acquires a friend. theyre both really bad at it

need to clarify that in my mind their dynamic is 95% kenji yapping about work and drama in his personal life (circumventing the 8m baby kaiju hes raising) while ami goes "mhm mhm" and takes notes until kenji notices and is like What are you doing. at which point ami is like...... right . nothing. im listening. and forces herself to put the notepad away. she has a hard time disengaging from the reporter mindset and just hearing something intriguing without turning it into an article. the other 5% are the rare moments where theyre connecting super well - ami's psychoanalyzing the hell out of whatever kenji just said and hes like what are you my therapist. over time she starts opening up to him, too, and eventually theyre comfortable enough to be having philosophical discussions over breakfast just for funsies

before kenji reveals that hes ultraman, ami thinks hes in a gang. he keeps showing up to their lunch "dates" with like bruised eyes and fractured bones and gets all shifty when she tries to ask about what happened. when she eventually confronts him about it, hes so offended that she thinks hed be involved in something like that that he tells her about being ultraman

thats about all i can think of rn, though im sure ill think of more after rotating all the characters in my head for a while. thanks again for stopping in, i appreciate the support :)

[xylophone888]

being a fan of any other character feels like giving somebody a genuine heartfelt compliment, being a fan of rincewind feels like nonstop day and night 25/8 staring into your aquarium where a lonely sickly shrimp resides never leaving it out of your sight and screaming at the top of your lungs when it eats or gets slightly better because you've been medicating it carefully for the last month and left your job just to care for it