#i love how i say ‘rarely seen’ like this didn’t devolve into angst which I am very well known for lmao

[littledreamling]

∇ - old age/aging headcanon (for dream and hob if they were human rather than immortal, i suppose)

Oh my friend, you have just unlocked a side of my mind that's rarely seen but so so feral!

From this headcanon meme!

I absolutely adore aging Hob and Dream. Even outside of a human au, I love the thought of them growing old together. Age continues to exist, even if the physical evidence of it (and indeed, the end result of it) does not. Hob still ages; each year that passes is another year since he last saw his mother, another year since he last rode a horse (he really wants to get back into that and keeps telling himself that this year will be the year, but it never is), another year since he heard his oldest friends' laughter. He feels the weight of his immortality every single day, and it's not an unbearable weight, but it hangs off of his shoulders nonetheless. Dream, too, ages. Perhaps not in the same way; his life is not measured in the same way as human lives are, he does not count each passing second as an added second to his never-ending, eternal clock, nor does he measure the length of the road behind him (or the road ahead of him) in human years. Yet he ages. If learning and growing and changing are all marks of growing up and growing old, then he is doing both. He was not always; for a long time, he had been stuck in time, neither adapting nor maturing in any conceivable way, but recent events (and a certain immortal mortal) have dragged him firmly into the realm of the aging.

And it's a good thing! Hob had learned the old aphorism long ago: change or die, and he had chosen to live. Living means changing; changing with the times, changing outlooks, changing opinions, changing biases. He is a master of change, moving from one life to the next with all the fluidity of a rushing river. His ability to do so is his aging. Likewise, Dream's willingness to, if nothing else, at least see Hob's point of view about change, shows his own aging.

But you didn't send this ask to hear me wax poetic about the philosophy of aging or changing, so here are my thoughts on old, human Dreamling.

Dream is a grumpy old man. He's the old man who worked every day of his life, without break or vacation, and his body is punishing him for it. He was definitely an artist of some kind, maybe a sculptor, maybe something else. It doesn't matter; at the end of his day, his knees click and his knuckles are swollen with arthritis and all of the muscles that had built up in his shoulders have languished in his old age. He can't hold a paintbrush or spin a pottery wheel anymore and it eats him alive with every sunrise. Hob, on the other hand, is the singular spot of warmth and light in Dream's life. Hob, a retired soldier, or maybe a life-long construction worker, has kept his sunny disposition (and, infuriatingly, his fit frame) into his older years. They're the quintessential grumpy one/sunshine one, though anyone who knows them personally knows that Dream has a soft spot for children, and for birds, and for anyone who has a story to tell, while Hob has a mean streak a mile wide if you get on his bad side. They spend their days sitting at the kitchen table, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on their front porch, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on a bench in their local park, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea. They always have warm cups of coffee or tea. They're well-known at the coffee shop, and Hob will recount the story of how they met in that very same shop loudly and at length to anyone who asks (and sometimes to people who don't).

On days when Dream feels as though he can't get out of bed, like his body is too heavy for the world, like his mind has fallen into such disrepair as to be unusable, Hob is the one who sits next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and affectionately calls him a drama queen. He'll roll his eyes at his husband's antics, but he'll bring him breakfast in bed anyway. And when Hob is haunted by old nightmares of a long life, not always well-lived, Dream will hold one of their countless books in long, shaking fingers, and he will read to his husband, poems and epic tales, and Dream won't tell Hob that he's not reading, he's reciting, because his quiver and eyesight have gotten so bad that he can't see the words clearly, but he knows them in his heart. And Hob won't tell Dream that he doesn't need to go through the trouble, that it's his presence that's grounding, not the words he's speaking; he'll sit in his presence and let the wash of words roll over him like a comforting tide, drowning his bone-deep anxieties. He'd listen to his husband read the phone book and still find enjoyment in that deep voice and the cadence of his tone.

And when they die, because they do die, they die together. Not in time, mind you, but in company. Surrounded by friends and family, the younger siblings of the Endless family, the children they adopted and the grandchildren, both blood-related and not. Morpheus dies first, his body breaking at the seams. He dies in his sleep, napping on the couch while Hob cooks dinner, and his last words are breathed into the quiet room, asking Hob for a blanket. The funeral is a somber affair, a solemn celebration of everything Morpheus had been; an artist, a husband, a father, a flawed man. The entire town attends, even those who had gotten yelled at from across the lawn or across the park (Dream had taken grave offense to anyone disrupting the local bird population, a story that gets told at the reception with teary eyes and wobbly smiles). When Hob gets home, their entire family is there, warm and laughing and joyful and he can feel his husband in the room, in the people they both had dedicated their lives to.

When Hob dies a week later, no one is surprised. It's his daughter who finds him, curled up on the very same couch, wrapped in the very same blanket, tucked lovingly around him, as if someone else had draped the quilt over his shoulders. She cries, because he was her father, and she loved him, and a part of her had hoped that he would be around forever. But there is a larger part, a much larger part, that finds comfort in the sight. Hob and Dream were never meant to be separated. Wherever they are, she reasons (because they were never a religious family), they are together. For now and forever. As they always should be.

[youtiaoshutiao]

传闻中的陈芊芊 thoughts

i haven’t been very active lately but i just came on to say, i binged on the romance of tiger and rose / 传闻中的陈芊芊 and have 2 eps left and i love it SO SO MUCH. i was expecting some pure crack but beyond that, i really ended up catching much feels for it?

and i think beyond the outlandish hilarity of some of the scenes and the cheeky meta, it’s actually a pretty decent drama with its plot and character motivations largely dictated by logic. i have to commend the scriptwriter nan zhen 南镇 for the entire set up of the drama (and it’s her original script!!! which is so rare in the industry nowadays run over by book adaptations - i mean i love those too but i still think it’s an easy way out for production companies when they adapt books with established fan bases). it’s actually really clever of her because all plot holes/flaws in world building can easily be attributed to xiaoqian’s lousy scriptwriting abilities?

i really did become quite impressed with the plot as the episodes progressed haha. the conflict and plot thickens as xiaoqian, now as qianqian, with the mindset that she’s not part of this story at all and that she’s interacting with a bunch of characters on paper, continues to engineer plot machinations trying to steer the plot in the right direction to get to the end so she can return back to the real world. and you slowly see how that just devolves into complete chaos and plot twists when surprise! she IS part of the story, she IS interacting with these characters and they are influenced by what she says and does! so you have her original male lead hanshuo, destined for the female lead chuchu, falling in love instead with her and changing his entire plan because of that. you have chuchu, the original female lead, slowly growing more unhinged as she perceives qianqian’s actions and words as callous and uncaring and outrightly antagonistic towards herself and as her resentment builds when everyone seems to shower affection and attention on qianqian still.

adding on to that is, how xiaoqian as a scriptwriter views and perceives her characters? some characters like hanshuo, she clearly constructed with much care and love, as seen by how she knows exactly how to make hanshuo happy and doesn’t want to upset him in the initial episodes (which caused him to fall for her like a devoted puppy). yet it seems like she either didn’t grasp fully their character motivations/personality/how their character is moulded by their backgrounds? which is why she probably didn’t see how the inherent difference with which her mother treats qianqian vs chuchu would lead to jealousy and resentment seeping in and poisoning chuchu’s heart. and her visualising han shuo as a murderous calculating career-driven male lead aka the male lead of eastern palace clearly runs contrary to how he is total putty and has barely hurt a fly ever since he fell in love with qianqian.

and there are characters too like her mother that she originally clearly just wrote in as characters to steer the plot forward, and in-world, she is clearly stricken when she realises how they have emotions and hidden depths beyond what she fathomed - like when her and her mother had that semi HTHT after she stole the dragon bone and her mum stayed by her bedchamber to watch over her all night. and another example would be su ziying - she’s so happy to see him when he appears as in that moment she’s viewing him from the lens of the scriptwriter of this story and she knows he’s going to push the plot forward. but seeing him and his actions actually playing out - she gets irritated by what he does and also his actions actually do end up affecting her, because she is in the story too!!!

and moving on from that, as the plot further progresses, another spanner is thrown into the mix when she realises that male lead is really really in love with her! and would give up everything for her! and... she too is in love with him!! and this changes things too because while initially all her actions were to push the plot to move forward the way she originally wrote it so that she can head back, now she’s actively trying to push back against the flow of events, as she’s now emotionally invested in this and doesn’t want the male lead to die as per her original script.

the play out of all these was really really entertaining and gripping to watch?? i was legitimately bowled over by how affected i was when all the angst came in, because it really felt like it made sense amidst all the crack and was well set up? and throughout it all, the actions of all the main players in the plot made sense and were logical, even the secondary leads chuchu and peiheng. haha idek if i’m ascribing too much credit to this whole plot, maybe it’s really just meant to be a cracky fun time and i’m too into it HAHA.

there’s also the set up of huayuan city being a matriarchal society where basically the roles of women and men are reversed. it is really v trippy!!! and An Experience to see scenes like men being harrassed by women, people tittering at other men for not being covered up enough in public, wares that can increase your chances of birthing a female heir being peddled on the streets. initially i was kind of apprehensive as to how it was going to play out. now at ep 22 where they’ve gone to xuanhu city which is patriarchal the conversation regarding gender roles and gender equality is continuing!! but i shall reserve my thoughts and comments till the entire arc plays out.

but beyond all that, the drama is just so much fun fun funnnnn!!!! i loveddddd seeing how this drama about a scriptwriter getting stuck in her own script had scenes interspersed with storytellers on the street retelling qianqian’s exploits and qianqian’s regular meetups with the storytellers/opera writers to discuss how the plot of the drama was going or even the scene where hanshuo and peiheng went to the opera house for their male lead showdown and the opera characters were there saying all the rude things they wanted to say to each other. such fun meta?? breaking the fourth wall?? satire?? idek LOL i just know i enjoyed it thoroughly

and lastly, apart from all the thinky thinky stuff, i’m thoroughly charmed by the otp HAHA. i loveeeee qianqian so much and zhao lusi is soo effortlessly adorable and natural and charming in this role that i can totally see why everyone from han shuo to her mother is enamoured by her. i actually am really curious also to see how qianqian before xiaoqian transmigrated into her body was like - seeing how her servant didn’t seem to have any whiplash from an extreme change in personality suggest that maybe qianqian wasn’t all that different from xiaoqian?? and probably might not have been that spoilt/callous/havoc-wreaking as everyone perceives her to be?

and han shuo too is SO entertaining and funny and darling - when he first came to huayuan city he’s all “i’m cunning and smart and i’m going to MANIPULATE EVERYBODY for my/xuan hu city’s benefit” and “i want chen qianqian to die with ten thousand arrows through her heart!! i want her to be stabbed by knives three thousand times!! not a single time less!!!” and “do you think i don’t dare to kill you?!”. then he falls in love with her and instantly he’s all puppy eyes and utter devotion. IT’S DELICIOUS. ding yuxi really makes staring at your FL like she’s the only one in the world an art form. and as one comment on a bilibili mv said regarding han shuo’s supposed bloodlust, “han shuo, up to this point you’ve only killed one horse” HAHA

(keep in mind that it’s not even that han shuo ordered the killing of this horse, it was his subordinate that killed it on his behalf, and han shuo was Not Happy about it after that!)

together the otp are even more adorable!!! it’s teeth rotting fluff but yet it comes off very earnest and adorable without being cloying. i was literally clutching my heart and grinning at the screen dopily at some scenes. and even though the otp dynamic and character setups are not really the same, the way the two of them bicker and act like children around each other kind of remind me of yongqi and xiaoyanzi from hzgg for some reason lol.

and apart from the otp, there are a whole host of supporting characters that are really very funny and adorable and entertaining to watch haha. special shoutout to both han shuo and qianqian’s subordinates who are HILARIOUS and plain Done with their masters’ nonsense (especially bai ji who really just wants to get shit done okay!! but his master just keeps on wanting to fall in love and date!!) there’s also qianqian’s older sister yuanyuan who is disabled and on a wheelchair, and with a sad yet somehow hilarious penchant for writing multiple drafts of her will. and her otp, su mu, a courtesan (yes the courtesans in this city are all male).

honestly i’m not sure where i’m going with this, i just briefly scanned through what i’ve written so far and lol seems like paragraphs of illogical incoherent rambling. I’m sorry it’s 5am over here i’m not really thinking straight T_T i just have a lot of feels for this drama okay ;_____;

[aikrus]

Another Day, Another Life (Tenya Iida x Villain!Reader)

Fandom: Bnha / Mha  Warnings: Angst, amnesia, swearing, weed, coping with death, hallucinations  Words: 3,456 Requested by: No one, but requests are open!  Request/ Description: Casualties are expected in a war, but when a child dies no one is ready. No one knows how to react. The death of a teen can tear people apart, it can rip people into shreds to never be put together again, but is it better or worse if they’re not actually dead?

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          Toga was far from an ideal friend. She was clingy and rude, she talked too much and she cared primarily about herself. She was weird and difficult to get understand, and you never really knew where she stood. She wasn’t perfect, but having her was a blessing in disguise. 

“Y/n, we’re heading out, are you ready?” While she wasn’t perfect, she was pretty close to it. Himiko had a strange way with words, and she could always make the world feel smaller than it was. Her voice was like warm honey on a spoon; hazy caramel color and sweet, perfect for recovery.

“I’m ready, thanks for grabbing me,” Y/n wasn’t close to anyone. It was hard to get attached when the overwhelming threat of having friends ripped away from her grasp constantly loomed over her. She kept her distance, but it was hard not to get sucked into being friends with the blonde.

“Of course!” Her bright smile feels like it should be un-nerving, it holds malice and hatred, it’s the smile of a girl who has been rejected her entire life- but it almost makes others smile back. And so, Y/n’s face was covered with the rare grin; which had become scarce. 

“It really isn’t that big a deal, but Shigarki is getting trigger-happy. We should hurry, I’m pretty sure Dabi will set his hands on fire if we don’t leave soon!” Her voice dripped sugar, and Y/n found herself hurrying. She put her phone into her side pocket, and she secured her outfit. 

The pair walked out of Y/n’s assigned room, and they made their way to the group scattered around the bar. “I thought you all were ready? Let’s get a move on!” Y/n said, there was an unusual lightness to her tone.

The group had started to pass through the given portals Kurogiri had made for them, and one by one they stepped through. In the end, only Dabi and Y/n were left standing with the tall void-like man. 

“Hey,” the gruff man had grabbed a hold of Y/n’s y/s/c arm, and he had lightly pulled it back.

“What’s the deal, Dabi?” She asked, not rudely, but he could tell she didn’t appreciate the physical contact. They were far from close. When Y/n woke up, Dabi could tell something was off about her. Not wrong necessarily, she just had a very unique vibe that he felt was oddly familiar. 

“It’s just...” he sighed and shook his head, “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” 

Whatever it was that Dabi was going to tell her obviously didn’t matter that much, so she shook it off and went through the portal. 

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Kurogiri looked him in the eyes with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Dabi nodded and walked through the portal- it would be cruel to tell her- he decided as soon as he saw her laughing with Toga. She has no memory of it, and she just recently started to act like herself again, why would I ruin that for her?

Amnesia was a tricky situation for anyone to deal with. It was dangerous to the person suffering from it, due to how trusting and gullible they become- but it is significantly worse for those of them who have their memories of the victim intact.

Dabi was one of those lucky people- so is the majority of the other people on the team. They can all think back to at least one memory of the spunky girl they have grown to care for. She was always so strong, yet somehow she was always overshadowed by her over-zealous classmates. Those stars that tried to outshine her magnificence- Dabi could only hope they would burn out soon.

He had been one of the first to meet the girl, and boy was she hard to forget. If her physical appearance didn’t grab his attention- her striking y/e/c eyes and flawless y/h/c hair- her quirk definitely did. 

GateKeeper was a well-known up-and-coming hero and student at UA’s school for future hero’s, she was the receiver of the most interning opportunities, and she was respected by almost everyone. Named after her quirk, GateKeeper- or rather, Y/N, is able to access the gates between different planes. 

She can visit the gates of hell, she can see the holy light of heaven, she can see the Mormon’s different kingdoms and the fields of Aaru. She can walk along the banks of river Styx with those about to be reincarnated. 

She can see spirits or those who have passed, and she can comfort those who have lost love ones. With this power, she has been given the ability to have the power of those who have died where she is standing. She can call on the remaining spirits to help her, and she has the power to reap souls. 

Dabi had spent countless hours thinking about the girl who froze him in place- she showed him his worst fear and didn’t bat an eye. She was fierce and protective of all the other students, she stood in front of them and, with her small undead army of soldiers who could never move on, defended them till her last breath. If only she had died.

The fight hadn't lasted long, the pros took out most of the b-tier criminals, and the students were fighting here and there. With All-might out of the picture, it was anyone's guess how the fight would go.

Who would have thought that a single girl who wipe the floor with them? Ahh yes, in a flash of light she managed to subdue the vast majority of the villains, if only she hadn’t lost consciousness- then maybe she wouldn’t have been snatched away so easily. 

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It was hard to believe that Iida would skip school. For the first handful of days after the attack, he dragged himself to his classes- half-conscious and unwilling to be aware of his surroundings.

Eventually having to push himself to get out of his bed- let alone go to school- grew too much for him. He settled with walking to the canteen when everyone else was out to get food before going back to his room. 

He was never one for dramatics, but Iida knew there was nothing he could do. He had failed her, the love of his life slipped through his fingers- never to be seen again.

Day after day he listened to a voicemail left months before the incident- he was never happier for his phone to be dead than when he knew he could hear her talk to him again. 

And while Iida had his outlet for his sadness, his classmates were going more and more concerned with every passing minute. 

Midoriya would double take when he heard her voice through his wall, and, silently, he would press his ear against it just so he could make-believe she was still with them.

“Hey, Tenya! I guess you’re busy huh? Haha! It’s so weird to talk to your voicemail- I’ve never had to before. Well, I miss you! Remember that just because it’s Christmas and I’m not with you doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to celebrate with your other friends!

I just want to remind you how much I love you! You are such a great boyfriend, and I’m glad that you’re mine. I was planing on FaceTiming you while we have Christmas dinner, but since I can’t I guess this will have to do~

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

In the lane, snow is glistening

A beautiful sight

We're happy tonight

Walking in a winter wonderland

Gone away is the bluebird

Here to stay is a new bird

To sing a love song

While we stroll along

Walking in a winter wonderland

In the meadow, we can build a snowman

We'll pretend that he is Parson Brown

He'll say, are you married?

We'll say, no man

But you can do the job when you're in town

Later on, we'll conspire

As we dream by the fire

To face unafraid

The plans that we've made,

Walking in a winter wonderland”

She cleared her throat and laughed a little, “That was really awkward, but I hope you’ll accept my mini Christmas gift! I’ll wait to open the one you got me until I’m with you again. I love you Tenya, merry Christmas!”

Once again, the shrill ring of an ended voicemail echoed through his room. Wiping away a stray tear- Iida sat down at his desk.

Everything had been going so perfect, everything was going exactly to plan. His brother had been in recovery, they had been going smoothly, classes had finally declared winter-break, and then... everything fell apart. The storm had been brewing, and brewing, and then it came- and then it destroyed everything in its wake. 

It’s hard to accept a loss that you didn’t see happen. He didn’t get the goodbye, or the I’ll never let go. There was no body to hold on to, no one in the casket which was lowered to the ground. Nothing to show that his lover was gone- only the empty dorm room and phone number that gave no answer. 

The school had opened it’s doors during winter break for all the students and parents to come. Some of her closest friends only ever saw her in the hallow walls of UA, and now they didn’t have the chance to see her anywhere else.

There was really no good way to deal with it. ‘It’. Iida despised that word now- ‘it’ was the only way people described the death of his girlfriend. As if death was a taboo word, ‘it’ was all people talked about and yet their words meant nothing. 

Tenya was doing his best- fighting every single fucking day at a time. He hated what he had turned into. He hated the state of being that he devolved to be. Every trait she adored about her boyfriend diapered.  Failing to go to class and snapping at those that came close enough to bother him. He had always gotten cold when faced with misery, resolved and retreated in himself- he had never seen himself as someone who would take up smoking to feel better.

Weed always seemed so far beneath him, it felt like something nothings did to feel better about themselves instead of working hard at bettering themselves, but now even Denki wasn’t eager to help him. Last time he visited the blonds room Kaminari rejected him, saying that he wasn’t getting high in the right way and that he was worried Iida would become a drug abuser with how things were turning up. 

Tenya hated himself more that night. He hated himself and he hated everyone else. He hated Uraraka, who coped with baking Y/n’s favorite cookies and eating them to the movie they would watch during their own girl’s night. 

He hated Momo too, she still got straight A’s and seemed to be just fine- pretending like we didn’t hear her obnoxious sobs at two am. He hated Mina too- she had no place wearing Y/n’s hoodie to school everyday. It was a shitty thing to do. 

He’s pissed at Deku as well- Midoriya the hypocrite. Knocks on his door every day with his missed classwork and with his judgement, pressuring him to leave his room. Everyone knows his grade’s have gone down since her death so who is he to talk about attending class. 

He hates Bakugo, who only ever yelled at her even when she joked around with him- who’s words she laughed at but really made her drown in her insecurities when she was suppose to be secure in her boyfriends arms. Fuck Bakugo, for glaring at her empty seat next to him like he didn’t openly mock her when she got a grade lower than him. Fuck him for screaming at 3am and breaking the school punching bags. Fuck him for feeling bad after hurting her. Fuck him for being her friend. Fuck him for giving a shit. Fuck everyone.

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Aizawa sighed once he sat at his desk. Classes would start in half and hour and he was still crying. His silent tears burned down his cheek and all he could fell was the raw aching in his throat and the headache that felt like it was killing him slowly. 

He saw it then. In that classroom starring at her desk, he can see it happening. 

The cold breeze had moved his hair into his face, giving the villain a second outside of his hold. One second- yet it was long enough for him to disappear into the ground. 

“Dammit,” he hissed, looking around him. 

He heared Mic’s screech at a crowed of them on his left, and the majority of his students stood tall on his right. Everything was chaotic, but a Nomu appeared from the forest line everything exploded. 

He felt a familiar chill crawl over his skin, signifying Y/n using one of her ultimate moves ‘Fallen Heros’. AS what looked like hundreds of dead warriors of different generation’s rose from the ground- some in modern military uniform and others in ancient armor- and surrounded the giant Nomu. 

More appeared- in uniquely them outfits. They were the dead pro-heroes, the ones who passed during a fight they’ll never get to finish. The ones who either dine at Valhalla or will never be at peace after failing. 

A woman with black hair flew as she fought- with more ease than the others that were in spirit form. It was safe to assume that this was her quirk. The other that sent momentary shock waves through the gathering was Sir Nighteye, who waisited no time wiping out the waves of villains. 

Aizawa took notice of Y/n’s body floating in mid-air. The cost of her quirk- she had to keep note of all those she called upon. If one of the fallen are out of her sight for too long her body replicates what the dead’s went through, and she would eventually die from the injury. 

The dead soldiers ended the battle very suddenly, and, as their spirits returned to the afterlife, a large explosion of dust swallowed the crowed. 

Once they could all see, and the hectic environment calmed, Iida’s voice cut through the air. He was screaming as loud as he could, frantically running around the field of people. 

“Y/n!” He had shouted, his voice becoming horse. “Y/n!” Everyone became deathly pale and still as the horror of realization came upon them. She was gone. 

“Y/l/n?” Aizawa had shouted, starting the shove peoples shoulders to get to where she was. 

“Y/l/n now is NOT the time to play games!” He had hopefully prayed. His face fell along with his voice as he made it to where she had been floating. A scorched square of land had taken her place. 

His mind tried to go back and see the rose dead she had summoned, he looked frantically for a scorched soldiers face, but he couldn't find one. Even then it wasn’t hard to guess at what had happened.

No one near her had heard her screams, but with the noise coming from everyone in the dust storm, it would be unlikely that they would have been heard whether she screamed or not. 

He was right there. He saw her. He was less than three yards away. How did he let this happen?

He remembers looking around for a corpse of a soldier, but he wondered if, with Y/n dead, they would be able to live anyway. 

He pinched the bridge of his noes, wiping away the pools of tears from his stinging eyes. Rubbing them with his palm, his vision blurs when he looks up. Yet, even with the lines blurring, what he sees is unmistakable.

“Y/n?” He asked, seeing her figure sit on the top of her desk. 

“Calling a student by their first name,” she teased lightly, “how unprofessional,”

“Are you...” he stopped and starred at her, “Are you really here? Is this a part of your quirk?” 

“C’mon Eraserhead, like I would know. If you’re right then you’re right. If you’re wrong then I’m just a fixation of your brain and I wouldn’t know it,” She tried to reason, hopping off of her desk. 

“Damn... you’re right. I’m going batshit crazy,” he sighed, closing his eyes again.

“So,” Y/n smirked, walking up to his desk and bending over, placing her hands on her locked knees, “Wanna talk about why you’re fantasizing about your dead, female, super fucking hot, student?”

He groaned out annoyed and clawed at his eyes, “Why the fuck is that happening? I hate that, I hate this, cut this shit out!” He shouted, pushing his hand into his covered corneas. 

“What shit out?” Hizashi asked, stepping into his classroom.

“Nothing Mic, just overthinking,” he responded, slamming his eyes open looking for his student. 

“Alright Shouta, just remember that I’m across the hall if you ever need to talk,” 

Sighing once he noticed Y/n had vanished, he wondered if this was confirmation that he was hallucinating. Needless to say, Y/n definitely responded to her situation exactly how he would expect her to when she figured out her action’s had no consequence- like a little shit who needs to be put into detention. 

God, even thinking that last sentence made Aizawa feel dirty. He’ll definitely need to scrub his skin red after that. 

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Breakfasts in the mornings have changed a lot since school opened back up. Y/n was always made a plate of food and a drink every morning, it varied in who made it every couple days. No one vocalized what the food at her usual spot on the couch meant, but it was an unspoken rule that it would stay undisturbed. 

No one was entirely sure who cleaned it up when they were in class. They were pretty sure it wasn’t Iida, the seat was clear even when he was in class with them. 

Everyone missed her voice in the mornings. Whether she was complaining about late nights (to which Denki or Mina would yell get some in her direction after) or she was cracking jokes to help wake everyone up, her voice still rung in the air leaving a hole of silence where it once was. 

People’s sentences often drifted off half way through as their eyes caught themselves on her corner seat, where she once curled up into half a ball as she placed her plate of breakfast on top of a throw pillow. 

As people would shuffle off to class, everyone would throw a look over their shoulder and give a moment of their time to the friend they would never get to see again. 

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

Taking one more look at the lock-screen of a phone she couldn’t unlock, she wondered who it was on her screen. A boy with strikingly unique features had white ice cream smeared from his noes down to his lips, and a small smirk was percent on his face. Lights from a Ferris Wheel and fairy lights lit up the dark night sky behind him, and what looked like her knuckles were in front of the camera, showing their interlocked fingers. 

It was a cute photo, but it was so foreign to her it made Y/n wonder if the phone was even hers. She sighed after staring at the keypad, asking for her password. The face id had been disabled after it shut off, and all she could do was hope she would remember what is was.

“You okay?” Toga asked, placing a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she responded, taking in the forest clearing Toga had taken her off to, splitting off from the rest of the group. “What are we doing here Himiko?”

“The other members want to know how much control you still have over your quirk. They thought I would be the best person for you t be around when we do this,” She explained, a soft smile on her face as she explained. 

“Huh,” Y/n had a few thoughts running around in her mind, “Shigiraki didn’t want you to tell me did he?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” She teased, a wide smile on her face.

“I dunno... it felt like someone whispered it in my ear, if that makes sense?” 

“Who knows, that could be one of the parts of your quirk,”

“What exactly is my quirk?” She asked, glaring at one of the birds near them who had grown to be too loud. 

“It’s kinda hard to explain. The easiest way that I know how to explain it is that you’ve got a strong connection to the dead. You can talk to them, visit them I think, and most importantly you can summon them to fight for you,”

“Fight for me?” Y/n echoed. She wasn’t quiet sure why, but that phrasing felt weird... it almost felt off... 

“Yup!” Himiko cheered, bouncing slightly. 

“Alright,” Y/n sighed, shaking her arms, “Let’s give this shit a try,” she declared, moving her arms slowly from beneath her hips, struggling to get them above her waist.

In front of her, a muddy figure rose from the ground, it’s shoulders cracking as it took a deep breath of clean, fresh, air.

[hornsandthings]

a second time within these arms;

pairing: daryl dixon x reader

summary: having been separated from the group around the prison era, reader has been assumed dead for months. upon the group’s arrival at hilltop, however, daryl and the reader are reunited.

word count: 1628 // fluff & angst & exposition lol // i hope daryl’s in character?? he’s a big, surly, quiet hothead of a contradiction, but i love him :(

it has been a long time since you heard the moans of walkers.

it used to be a constant; a reminder of the folly of man and what the world had become. at first, it was an alarm to warn of danger – this was what kept you alive long enough to find the quarry camp outside atlanta. then human adaptability took root: you got used to it, and carried on. shane showed you guns; glenn taught you logistics; rick gave you the courage to endure. you were hardened, and so the groans devolved from an anxiety to an annoyance.

it stayed like that for a while. the moans were always there – sometimes they carried on the wind across the greene family farm – but they weren’t a guaranteed death knell anymore. you felt so damn secure in what the group had found there that your heart started to race for a different reason. eventually you learned that it – love – was one of the most dangerous things to do in this new world; but also the most rebellious.

and daryl dixon had always been one to defy.

it must have been something about his hands, as calloused as they were. they had adorned arrows with the feathers you gathered for him; pulled you back from several enemies; held you close during rare kisses; held your own when you were in pain. the two of you might’ve been a fitful thing, slow and discreet and unconventional, but it was real - sometimes so much so that things could be raw, all red and painful and vulnerable. but he was warmth, he was security, he was the one who kept you from losing your agency. you couldn’t deny it: daryl had taken your heart in such an absolute sweeping way that sometimes you weren’t sorry for the uglier things you’d done, because the both of you were still breathing.

new places, people, priorities; and soon the walkers’ groaning faded into the background, became the new white noise. once or twice a woodbury resident had turned to you while on duty at the prison fences, wide-eyed and swearing that a walker had moaned a word to them. but that was nonsense to you; the groans were always unintelligible.

at least, until you found yourself alone again.

on that trek north, the walkers had been your only company, their moans the only language you could understand for three long months. it became a never-ending chorus, a steadfast radio signal carrying you into the new era: post-apocalypse. the loss had been so great that you had decided to just throw yourself to the wolves too, flatline into something that behaved more dead than alive – not that the distinction was so clear anymore.

it had been so stupid, the way you got separated. you were out helping to search for those wild boars when looters caught you at a disadvantage, knocking you out so well that you didn’t ever remember waking up, only becoming lucid again. by then, you were in a whole other state, so lost in the woods that you weren’t ever going to make it back.

so you just kept going, careless, aimless. it was paul who had found you – you’d been so out of it that you took his moniker as the truth for a while, believing him to the messiah and fearing god for the first time in your life – and brought you here, to hilltop: the first and only place where you couldn’t hear the walkers’ lament.

right now, sitting in the courtyard as you cleaned the bark off some branches, you realised you were coming up on six months as serving as some kind of all-rounder. the structure here might’ve been an estate, but it felt more like a prison than the correctional facility ever did. there was a time when you had considered going back to georgia, but that required the kind of strength you didn’t have anymore.

“stop right there!”

you cocked your head, looking over to the sentries. they were brandishing their spears, they very kind you were currently trying to make more of.

“open the gates, cal.”

“jesus, what the hell is this?”

a rumble of multiple voices. you continued to carve at the branch, unbothered. you might’ve been a little better now, but the numbness that had almost consumed you… it still lingered.

the gates opened, and in walked paul with familiar faces – the doctor, a handful of the runners – and then also familiar faces, those which you thought you’d never see again, and your breath hitched and your heart stopped and you stumbled to your feet, task forgotten, dizzy and sick and sweating and believing—

you wiped hard at your eyes, expecting the stars but surprised to still see them there, rick and glenn and michonne and—and—

“daryl,” you breathed, the branch snapping beneath your feet. paul still held their attention with some explanation of hilltop—

“barrington house…”

—as you tried to move, to speak, but there was a terribly painful lump in your throat—

“…history museum…”

—and for the first time in your life you loved god, because miracles like this were surely divine. he was standing right there,only a few yards away, same jacket same pants same boots—

“…keep running after—”

“daryl!” you shouted, finally finding your voice, drawing all the attention and then he was looking at you, brows furrowing as he took one step back. but you were coming, and the realisation was in his eyes, in that one breathy mumble of your name. daryl swung the rifle over his shoulder just in time to catch you in his arms, his grunt right next to your ear.

you wrapped your arms and legs around him, not caring about the weapons that were digging into you. all you registered was him, daryl dixon, holding you tight. and then you were crying – or perhaps you’d been doing so this whole time – but he didn’t let go, his own shaky breaths warming your neck.

i—you—how—

thoughts running a hundred miles a minute, there were so many things you wanted to say, to explain, to apologise for, but the only thing you were capable of was a quiet sob. words were failing you, but you didn’t need them. not with him.

swallowing hard, you lifted your head and nudged his until you could press your lips against daryl’s own, tasting salt and smoke. it was wet, and hard, a little messy, but daryl’s hand cradled the back of your head to keep you right there against his mouth, letting the kiss linger, letting it last.

you pulled away so slowly, hand cupping his jaw to feel the scrape of stubble. was this real, or had you finally lost your mind? you searched his eyes, taking the time to just see him again. trembling, you pushed some of the hair away from his eyes, heart clenching as you realised you had started to forget some of the smaller details of his face.

“thought you were dead,” he confessed, the confusion and relief still unable to overcome that characteristic low growl to his voice. the mere sound of it had your eyes welling up again, and you gritted your teeth to keep the tears from falling. “we found nothin’ but remains… but it was your jacket, your pack—”

“i got—” you started, but then you shook your head, hands covering your face. daryl carefully set you down amidst the murmur of conversation, hand sliding to your wrist before he entwined his fingers with yours. “got a-attacked. concussion. got so l-lost… ended up here.”

“we mourned you,” rick spluttered, still in the throes of disbelief. daryl winced, shaking his head as guilt wormed its way past the shock.

“the tracks were messed up—thought it was walkers—should’ve seen it was fuckin’—”

“no, no” you started, voice cracking as you clutched at his shirt, not caring whether they had spent time looking for you or had made the call upon seeing whatever mess had been left behind. what mattered was that they were here, and so were you. these words were on the tip of your tongue, but it still felt like you were dyinga little, all this hope and joy an absolute bombardment upon a weathered heart.

daryl gathered you up in his arms again, eyeing paul and the rest of hilltop’s onlookers over your shoulder. “you’re comin’ back with us,” he said, low enough for only you to hear. all you could do was nod, knowing there were things he wanted to say but couldn’t, not in the company of strangers – but then he voiced one of them regardless. “missed you like hell.”

and finally—finally—there was a smile on your face, even if it was shaky. “i thought about you every day,” you whispered, and he squeezed you tighter for a moment in acknowledgement. paul was speaking again, and from the tension in daryl’s shoulders you knew his attention had shifted at the mention of gregory.

it had all happened so fast that it seemed like stop-motion frames, nonlinear and sporadic; surreal. still shell-shocked and utterly floored by it all, you did your best to regain your composure. all you wanted was shadow and privacy and daryl dixon to share it with, just a little while alone to relearn the intimacy that was meant for him only. you knew there’d be subtle differences for you and him to discover, and casting a glance up at him, you hoped time would be kind enough to allow you this reprieve.

after all, to find each other again after all this time, after all those miles… it gave you the strength to indeed have hope again.

[tryingthisfangirlthing]

Endless List of Works-in-Progress

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or as little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gifsets, whatever.

So I was sort-of tagged by @pellaaearien (in the manner of “if you see this and haven’t done the thing yet, do it”). And I’m tagging @viennainspringtime, @flootzavut, @doctorinblue @onekisstotakewithme (only if you want to do this!) and anyone else who sees this who wants to do the thing. :)

This is going to be long. Firstly, I’m only counting the works for which I actually have at least a few paragraphs written, aka not including the million and one ideas bouncing around in my head, some of which I have notes for and intend to write in the near future as well. Secondly, I’m only counting works on which I see myself spending time in the near future. 

Also, most of these don’t have proper titles. Titles are the worst, and I generally only have a hope of coming up with a title after I’ve finished a thing or written at least a few thousand words.

(Doctor Who) Nine/Rose ballroom dance class scene A short thing inspired by this photo manip. Currently untitled, basically what it says on the tin. He’s a dance instructor who sweeps her away from Mickey for several glorious minutes. Open-ended with implied mutual interest/pining (because mutual pining is my Thing). Basically I just have to sit down and finish putting the words to paper, dammit.

She was holding more-or-less the normal dancing position, because she knew that if she lowered her arms she wouldn’t want to raise them again for a week, certainly not before the end of the class.

“Whose idea was this again?” Mickey grimaced, scrunching up his nose.

“You sided with Mum on the whole dancing at the wedding bit, not me.”

(Doctor Who) Fem!Tentoo/Rose romantic fluff-ish thing Tentoo is female (because, hello, Donna’s a woman?) and her and Rose start bonding during and in between all those stops to drop the other companions off, and eventually reveal Feelings. Basically I decided to try to fill my own prompt. I still want to do it, except I am terrible at getting-to-know-you bonding chatter. Both in real life and in writing. It confounds me.

“I am the Doctor.” It was odd to hear those words in such different tones -— slightly higher, a bit rougher. “Well…” and she drew the word out exactly like the Doctor Rose knew did. “I’m a Time Lord-human biological metacrisis. Rather different body.” She rolled her shoulders, grimacing, laying one hand on her chest. “Bit of an odd feeling, having only one heart. I keep thinking something should be missing.” She looked back at Rose. “But I’m the Doctor in every way that counts. Thoughts, memories, feelings.” Rose wasn’t sure whether the split second of hesitation before the last was only her imagination.

(Doctor Who) Fem!Ten/Rose human AU speed dating Because I love Fem!Ten. I think this was also from something I saw on timepetalsprompts, but I can’t find the post right now. Fem!Ten here is adorably socially awkward and I want to snuggle her. But this story also suffers from the same I-can’t-write-bonding-talk problem as above.

“The Doctor. Well —” she reached back to rub at the side of her neck. “It’s Jane Smith. But all my friends call me the Doctor.”

“I’m Rose Tyler.” Rose couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “So, are you a doctor? Like, do you do surgery?”

“Oh! No, not that kind of doctor. Astrophysics. And politics. And I’m working on my doctorate of electrical engineering.” She twisted one curl around her finger, tapping the fingers of her other hand silently on the edge of the table.

“Wow.” Rose inhaled, trying not to be intimidated. “That’s a lot.”

(Doctor Who) Nine, Ten From this prompt, of Rose having a one-night stand with Ten while she was traveling with Nine, that decided to gnaw at me, and I immediately wondered “Where is Ten’s Rose?” and then it developed Feelings. This is another where I really just need to get all the words down, but I’m incredibly afraid I won’t do all the emotions the story holds in my head justice on paper (or on the screen).

“Oh. Oh!” The realization dawns in his eyes. “So that was…” His expression falls, his voice flat, deep disappointment in his gaze. “You — that you — didn’t know it was me. And you wanted to see the old me again, that was why you wanted to come here.” He’s closing off, something she hasn’t seen on this him before, but she instantly recognizes it, that look in his eyes, the way his features harden. “I can’t change back. I’m sorry. I wish I could—”

(There’s also a version that’s shorter and angstier but that doesn’t have enough words yet to count for this list.)

(Doctor Who) Ten/Rose flogging scene I started writing this to process a personal experience, and maybe attempt to more accurately depict conscious BDSM than how I usually see it portrayed (than I’ve portrayed some practices myself in the past). What I currently have will likely be scrapped, or cannibalized for a second version. But I still want to write this, and possibly expand on it, into a series of scenes (of actually rather minimally sexual BDSM). But it’s a balancing act between not wanting it to devolve into pure imagination, and not wanting to recount intense personal experiences for the world to get off to, out of respect for my partners.

She trails her fingers down his vertebrae — he’s so wiry, she’d worried about hitting bone anywhere she struck, but he’d reassured her that he would be fine. Lightly, she strikes his left buttock with the back of her hand, just because she can, not because he needs any more warming up, his backside tinted pink as well. The smallest of noises curls in his throat, part amusement, and she smiles.

Resting her hand other on his shoulder, brushing her thumb in a short arc, she asks, “Ready?”

He nods, clears his throat. Head lowered, he adjusts his stance slightly where he braces himself against the wall on his forearms. “Yes,” he says, a slight rasp to his voice.

(Nonfiction) BDSM writing how-to A lot of us tend to include elements of BDSM in our smut. Heck, I’ve done the same. But there’s a difference between spicing up the sex and consciously engaging in BDSM, and there’s not much information for “laypeople” on how (some/most conscientious) people do the latter, and how you can best write it. My intention is to try to fix that. It’s very much a work in progress and I keep changing it as I gain more experience and insight myself, and talk with far more experienced people. (Also I sometimes feel really pretentious writing this so if someone really wants this to be a thing, please please let me know.)

(Sanctuary) Adolescence of a Mongrel Vampire A work likely to approach novel-length in which Nikolija (gender-swapped Nikola Tesla) deals with having become a vampire in the early days after the change, and the effect this has on the Five at Oxford. Rather graphic and unpleasant in parts, very whump-y, with a dash of unfulfilled lesbian pining to round out the angst. (This is also actually part of a universe of sorts, with multiple stories featuring said gender-swapped Tesla, but it can be read on its own.)

“How’s —” She cut him off, not wanting to hear the lie, swallowed, and tried again, forcing hoarse words over her lips. “How’s Helen?”

Newton, as she had begun to privately call the pigeon, squawked, and she realized she was gripping him — her? it — far too tightly, and she stepped inside and set it down on the edge of the washbasin.

“She’s fine.” Nigel spoke softly. “She lost some blood, and she’s restin’ now, but she saw to herself and she’ll be fine.”

Nikolija nodded, finally, and mostly closed the door behind herself, purposely not quite enough that it would latch.

He saw it, and didn’t say anything, as she kept her distance from him, moving along the walls over to the plain wooden wardrobe.

“Tell her I am sorry.”

She bowed her head and turned her back on him as she rifled through her clothes.

(Sanctuary) Soulmarks UA Soulmarks are not only for romantic partners, but anyone who is has touched your heart in a significant way, however briefly or not-so-briefly. Helen, with her lifespan and work, of course has far more soulmarks than most. (This story was not meant to be this long! But it kind of took off and then I had no other choice but to trace through most of her life as we know it or can surmise it from the show.)

The cravat never caught on. It would have hidden the identifying mark in the hollow of one’s throat, that design — not words, but figures, lines contrasting against the skin in a symbol — that would be traced elsewhere on your own skin, if this person was to touch your soul.

It wasn’t unusual to have multiple marks, some clear, more starkly colored, for best friends or lovers or spouses, and some fainter, for a passing acquaintance who nevertheless offered exactly the right words or listening ear at the moment you needed them, or some kind of animal symbol for a beloved pet.

There were some who had many, many marks belonging to others — tracing up and down an arm or a leg, the lines occasionally interweaving — and then there were some who only had a few, loving rarely.

And then, there was Helen Sophia Magnus, whose skin from just below her collarbones downward was a mess of various shades of gray, so that individual designs were hardly distinguishable any more, aside from a few that stood out in stark black lines.

(Sanctuary) Teslen vampire/hunter AU He’s a vampire; she’s a hunter. He’s an unusual challenge for her; she’s the same for him. She’s also the one responsible for the entire vampire epidemic in the first place. I think this is the only one that’s been published in any kind of significant way so far; if you’d like, you can read what’s already up online here. Currently somewhat stymied because I’ve gotten past all the really fun relatively fluffy (for a given value of fluff) “mostly enemies but forging a grudging relationship” stuff and now I have to think of an actual plot, which I am incredibly bad at sorting out properly (and I really should have seen that coming, bad Rinari).

(Original Work) The Kel’Reth This is less of one work and more an entire project. It’s a whole flipping world, with one long, more traditional novel-ish work, about a king who loses his kingdom to a coup, and then several other stories in the same world, among them a lesbian explorer couple and a glimpse into the Kel’Reth mythology through a temple librarian. A lot of it is mostly ideas and notes. (Worldbuilding is hard!) It’s kind of a mess and I haven’t worked on it in what feels like ages but it’s my precious.

Sreh was already waiting for them with the messenger and a zazak, one of the large, thinly-furred, horned creatures the Kel'Reth used as pack animals, now relieved of its load. The tactician’s expression was somber.

“What do you have to tell me?” The king adjusted his red robes, cinching his belt tighter, as if that might help to brace him for whatever terrible news he could feel was coming.

The envoy bowed deeply, laying his frills flat. “I bow before you in awe, General-King, Elected of the Zir–”

“What do you have to tell me?” Varekh snapped. “Courier. Consider yourself excused from formalities.”

The messenger paled, swallowing heavily as he straightened. “My King… people have begun to die. It all happened so quickly—but some say even a quarter of the people may be gone by now. The Regent-King has fled, with the Crown Prince. Jazeri now holds the throne, though she has not ordered your guards slain yet. I have a letter from Regent-King Levor here–” he dug in his satchel to retrieve the roll of parchment, still sealed, and offered it to Varekh “–for you.”

His mind spinning, Varekh shook his head, not reaching to take the letter, simply absorbing the news. So he was too late. He had failed.

Perhaps it was instinct that made Sreh grab his arm just before his knees gave out from underneath him.

“Your Majesty! My King!” Her voice rose in panic. “Varekh!”

(Original Work) Heaven in Hell This began as a short story. Then it blossomed into a series of short stories, just a series of moments that somehow became a story in their own right. Jeanne/Evelyn is a lowly guardian angel, who talks with the demons she’s supposed to kill, who falls in love (and God forbid his angels truly love anyone but him), who is cast out of heaven and realizes maybe hell is her heaven after all. I started writing this in French, actually, and I have this weird compulsion to continue writing it in French. But since I have no French teacher to currently impress with little French stories, I haven’t made much progress recently. Still, I love it and I do want to finish it one day. It’s pretty personal, honestly, because I myself used to be highly religious of the very conservative variety and am now quite at home among the flaming queers. I’m sure you can see the parallels.

“I miss you.” Isabelle bit her lip, raising her eyes to meet Evelyn’s again. “You were always my best friend. Come back, please. I don’t know what you did–I’m not going to ask–but I’m sure the Lord would forgive you. He’s always ready to forgive…”

“You’re naive.” It was quiet, almost a whisper, as she stood.

The demoness kissed the angel on the cheek, pressing her lips to the corner of her mouth several moments longer than what would be strictly appropriate for a friend.

“Have a good evening, ‘Belle.”

With a flick of her tail, Evelyn turned to leave.