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willowser · 1 year

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you don't know how much comfort your dragon king bkg drabble has given me ever since you posted it!! i keep reading it i love it sm 🥹

as it turns out, the man bakugou is — a bit harder to handle.

he sleeps like a heathen; you once thought the dragon bakugou to be a bit lazy, with how often he tended to curl up in the fields of grass, warm under the sun, but now — it would seem his little human form needs significantly less rest.

almost up all hours of the day, and when he does finally lay down, he's everywhere. a mess of limbs: one thrown carelessly out to the side and the other bent at an angle you can't believe doesn't hurt his joints. his head stays tucked into you somehow, either buried in your neck or pressed against your ribs — or you'll wake to find him nose-to-nose with you. he still snores like a dragon, however.

you're also beginning to wonder if there is a bottom to the pit of his stomach. he ate much before, whole fields of things, but you expected that appetite to dwindle, at least a little, now that his stomach has decreased considerably in size. and in number ? you're not even sure how many stomachs a dragon has; that's not something that was mentioned in the fairytales.

it burns through him quickly, gives him more energy than he needs, and it doesn't ever seem to affect his weight much. already, he's huge and thick with muscle and eating as much as he does never dulls the severity of his cut abdomen. not that you're looking all that much.

— not that you have a choice not to, as he seems to have little-to-no understanding of —

the door to the bathhouse kicks open, with enough force that you already know who it is without ever turning to look. you try not to shriek when you see him, because he seems to like that in some evil, impish way.

you've been alone to wash so far, thankfully, as the inn you'd managed to find was small and far enough out from the nearest kingdom that the occupancy was low — enough for you and your little brute.

the man bakugou comes to stand in front of the bath, blinking and huffing against the steam. finding clothes for him was — nearly impossible, and so the trousers you'd found hanging on someone's line outside fit above his ankles, a bit too tight around his waist. instead of a shirt, you've wrapped him in a scratchy linen, swaddled him up like a baby to cover the small smattering of scales that decorate his body, almost like freckles from the sun, though they gleam just as bright and red as they ever have. no matter his form.

a horn has started to sprout, on the right side of his forehead, and you've done your best to cover that, too.

you have no idea how long this man thing will last. if it's permanent or if he even has control over it. the last thing you need is for him to switch back, somehow, while you're in the middle of feeding him, absolutely demolishing whatever tavern you're in and calling all of king todoroki's guards to attention.

bakugou grunts, almost sleepy, and tosses a fat, weighty sack onto the edge of the bath. it jingles a certain jingle that makes your heart stop.

"oh, allfather—" you move for the edge, awkwardly keeping one arm against your chest despite the fact that he's seen it all by now. when you peek inside and confirm your fears, you lob it back to him furiously, as if it were a steaming potato. "where do you keep getting this stuff?"

things have started to turn up, miraculously. shiny things — like coins and rings and gems. things he could not have simply found rolling around in the dirt.

"go put it back!" you hiss at him, and the tone of your voice makes his frown deepen. you never realized how pouty he was, when he was still a dragon.

you think he understands you, and you're pretty certain he just chooses not to listen; instead of doing what you've told him in the slightest, he simply dumps the coin-purse to the floor, and then lets his linen and stolen trousers cover it as he unceremoniously undresses.

the biggest issue that you would say the man bakugou poses is — his complete lack of understanding of personal space.

"bakugou!" your voice wavers, shocked again by his nakedness. as if you haven't seen it all by now. "no, you — get out!"

but he does the exact opposite, which is hop into the steaming water, ignoring the arm you hold out to keep him away as he saddles up beside you. skin against scales, pressing a nose into your hair to huff out his annoyance, to make it something you can feel.

if anyone were to walk in right now, they would — probably think the lie you'd told the innkeeper was true. that you are a simple traveler and this is your mute, over-sized husband.

regardless, you think this behavior isn't polite. especially in a public bathhouse.

"bakugou," you try again, turning your face away as you speak to the wood-paneled wall. "i'm taking a bath, you have to wait your turn."

all you receive in response is another huff against your ear and a low rumble of disagreement from his chest.

he has yet to speak back, and has only used inhuman sounds as his points of conversation. the only word you've ever heard him utter is oi, which he does when he really thinks he needs your attention. you're starting to wonder if he's named you that in his head. oi.

curiously, you turn back to him and the movement has him pulling his face from your hair, just enough that he can look down at you, too. watch you, with the red-rippled sea in his eyes.

they're — amazing, you will admit. just as bright and detailed as they always have been. fit for a fairytale told by the fire, veiled by the soft-ash of his lashes. he watches you through them, half-lidded, and you wonder if it's something other than fatigue that has them so heavy.

"do you know what i'm saying?" you ask quietly, voice lacking the firm heat you want it to. instead it's heavy, too, weighted by something soft and unfamiliar and frightening. "can you even understand me?"

bakugou doesn't respond, not with a huff or a rumble or ever a purr, like the one he let out on the night he lay over you by the lake. you've only heard it sparingly since then, oftentimes in his sleep when his face is pressed into you.

you try not to frown at his silence, try not to let it disappoint you because it shouldn't; he's a dragon afterall, and you're not sure what it matters. the little horn protruding from his forehead catches your eye and you reach up to touch it gently, watching him blink away the water that drips from your wrist — and then he's turning into you again, too close.

beneath the water, you feel his hands skate up your bare thighs, wrap around your waist until your chest is pulled flush against his. you feel his huff, again, against the damp skin of your neck but it's slower, lighter. not laced with his frustration. some unknown thing you feel guilty for liking.

you drop your hand to his hair, rushing full force into all the damned things you've thought about doing but have been too afraid to. he's soft between your fingers, and you trace your nails lightly against his scalp until he groans quietly; a new noise, one you don't know how to translate.

your fingers stop when they brush upon little spines that have grown at the base of his skull, that have started to trail down the center of his back.

suddenly, tangled up in the bath with him, you wonder how much time you have left.

bakugou huffs again into your skin, a little fiercer this time, and it's because of his light jostling that you realize how rigid you've gone. you try to relax so that he will, too, though you must not do a convincing job, because a sharp nip comes to your earlobe.

"ow!" you squeal, but he doesn't let you go far, not even as you try to jerk away from him. in fact, the harder you try the more his teeth show: into your cheek and the point of your jaw and then dangerously low on your neck.

it's not until you finally freeze that he stops, huffing again, with a warmth that burns more than the steaming water.

and then, very quietly, he grumbles, "shitty wife," into your collarbone, just before biting you again.

#anon dear friend i am so happy you have enjoyed it !!! and that it has comforted you in some way !!#i am wrapping you up in a big hug and so is our bratty lil dragon🥹#this message was just so cute and i wanted to write more for you !!!#this is all for you my peach my plum 😌 thank you for being here and reading my silly things !! giving me a reason to share them !!!#how fuuuuunnnn i am enjoying him way too much LOL #he's a brat !! a biter !!! he does what he wants !!!#god this is going to become a thing on here isn't it LOL might as well start a tag because i have much more to say !!#the lil world-building i have done for this in my mind...you have no i dea LOL #thank you again dearest !!#he he he he said THIS IS MINE 😊#and by this he means YOU 👀#๑ remember me love: bakugou ๑ #✿ willow writes #✿ ask willow #✿ thoughts: bakugou

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commandermahariel · 17 days

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actually i really don't fucking get the whole ''anders was better in awakening" circlejerk. "sealene you have posted about this several times already isn't it enough" NO IT IS NOT

anders in awakening is a cliche funnyman guy whose motivations aren't particularly interesting or compelling. oh he likes cats and doesn't like templars and wants a pretty girl. truly revolutionized writing. it doesn't help, of course, that awakening is only like 15 hours long if you do all the side content, and really none of the companions are that fleshed out.

idk man i don't have any screenshots or long professional essays about character analysis i'm not that kind of blogger. i'm just some guy who finds the da2 version of anders much, much more interesting and compelling as a character. "oh they ruined him in da2" it's called fucking character development?????????????

anders in dragon age II is far from being a flawless person. some might even say he is a bad person, and while i don't really agree to that, i do see where those people are coming from. but he is an interesting character, one that provokes heated discussion even 13 years after the game's release. how often is there any meaningful discussion regarding awakening anders that isn't just "hur dur he was better back then"?

i don't even dislike awakening anders he's a fun little guy wish he wasn't voiced by fucking greg ellis tho but come on man would this man really be an interesting companion in something longer than a 15 hours long dlc with very little companion interactions

edit: i have a feeling this post might breach containment so in case it does -- i wrote this while being kinda sleep deprived and without thinking too deep, i was just pissed at dragon age reddit being stuck in 2016. i could have articulated my point better and with less generalization towards daa anders but i won't bother rewriting the post now because most people likely won't see the new version anyway

#if you want to argue with me i suggest not bothering and scrolling/blocking #i am open for normal discussion just don't start with the terrorism support accusations or whatever you people like to do #dragon age #anders #da spoilers #<- for mads #walks out of reddit covered in blood. these people are stuck in like 2016 discourse #he should blow up more buildings btw. he can blow up my house for all i care #i would make a salty comparison to other characters in this franchise. but i shan't #i am being incredibly normal about dragon age. as usual. nothing to see here

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starry-bi-sky · 8 months

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Childhood Friends Au: Jason

there's something burning in the empty room inside my head fill it up with doubt let it in, let it spread

When Jason gets Tim's text in the groupchat, he ignores it. And then a short series of buzzes distract him from a drug bust. It hasn't even been that long since he reconciled with the family, with Bruce. He thinks that perhaps he should have left it sooner.

He glances at it momentarily when the buzzing stops and he doesn't need to knock out more guys. He sees Tim's question dedicated towards him, and his response is instant, his thumbs flying over in response.

He doesn't care, he's trying to patrol.

(He does not have Danny's number in this phone, it's new. A model from this year rather than one from four years ago. He wants that old phone back. He hasn't even looked at their old letters yet.)

(Jason bets that they've been packed away in storage with the rest of his things. He doesn't want to visit the manor, but maybe he should. Just to find those letters again. He's not sure if he's allowed to.)

And then Tim says its Danny, and Jason flies up to the past texts to find the photo before he can think. And then there is Danny staring right at him again, with the same old smile on his face that he always aimed at people. Lopsided, Danny's favorite kind of smile.

Something old, something new. He's got piercings, and his eyes are as blue as they've ever been. He has an undercut, it looks self-done. It looks good. He looks tired.

Danny's good at hiding things from people, it comes with the purchase of being a street kid. But Jason can't have someone else's back without knowing the ins and outs of the person in question. Jason knows when Danny is tired, and Danny knows when he is too.

Before his death, whenever Danny came over he never missed a beat in telling Jason that he looked like shit. Were Bruce's fancy rich-people, cloud-made mattresses too soft for him? He can find him a moth-eaten street mat for him if he needs it. It'd be like the good old days.

(Jason wishes he could have told him he was Robin, but it wouldn't be safe.)

Jason had to see him with his own eyes, had to confirm with his own eyes just how much Danny had changed. It's just his luck -- if he has any left -- that he arrives to Bruce's dumb gala just as Danny steps out onto their once-shared, west-end balcony.

He drops down, something heavy in his throat, before he can properly think it through. Danny looks up before his feet even touch the ground, like he knew he was there. Jason wonders if he did. There is a cigarette in Danny's mouth. Something old. And something flashes in his eyes that Jason cannot place. Danny looks tense.

Jason feels like he's made a mistake.

In the end, watching Danny walk away feels a lot like Jason is losing something -- or is he missing something? Is it both? He wants to reach out, grab Danny's arm, but his feet are glued to the balcony floor. There are so many things he wants to say, but his tongue has glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Something has crawled into his mouth and died.

So much has been said with so little words. He wants to spin Danny around and ask him so many questions.

What do you mean you spoke to my ghost?

What do you mean I told you the Joker killed me?

What else have I told you?

The Fentons were right?

What happened while I was gone?

Why are you scarred? Where did those come from?

(He is not blind. He saw those silver lightning scars etched into his best friend's skin, saw that it disappeared under his sleeves. Danny did not have those the last time Jason saw him, the last time he was alive.)

(The sight of it makes him alight with murderous intent. He wants to take his best friend by the front of his shirt and shake him -- who did this to you? Who did it? Tell him, he will fix it.)

(But he can't. He doesn't. Doing that means revealing who he is. It means telling his best friend that he has been alive for the last five years and he did not tell him. It would mean telling his best friend that he did not want him to know.)

You're going to kill the Joker for me?

What have I missed?

What do I not know?

You look so tired.

But before he can even get his mouth to move, Danny is gone back inside. The door swinging open, music once muffled now blaring out for only a few seconds before Danny is slipped back inside.

And Jason is left on the balcony, alone, with more questions than he thought he would have. He stares at the broken cigarette on the ground, it feels like a metaphor for something. Jason can't figure out for his second life what it is.

Maybe it's not a metaphor at all, maybe the curtains are sometimes just blue. Maybe sometimes your best friend just tells a vigilante that he is going to murder someone; that he is going to avenge his best friend with his bare hands and feel no remorse for it.

It is what Jason wants Bruce to do, wants someone who loves him to do. But he's not sure if its something he wants Danny to do. Not when he has been living a normal life -- or as normal as it could be -- without hide nor tail knowledge of what Jason used to do, or what he does now.

What have I missed?

Danny. He's missed Danny. He didn't look into Amity Park out of fear of what he'll find; of what he might do. But now Jason thinks he might have to.

Danny has talked to his ghost. Danny is going to kill for him. He has that look in his eyes that Jason knows so familiar; the one where he needs Jason to play distractor while he stole something from the corner store. The one where he looks a kid five years his senior in the eyes and kicks him in the dick because he cornered him and Jason, itching for a fight.

There's a look so familiar in his eyes; the one of a boy that's set his mind to something and he is going to do it. He can't call it the eyes of a cornered animal, because Danny has never been cornered, not when he's been with Jason. He calls it the eyes of a boy about to do something he will never regret.

He watches him leave with the Vlad Masters guy. He hides atop the roof and eavesdrops. The paparazzi have since left now that it was much later in the night; they are not the bigger fish, even if they sometimes parade it to be.

"I thought I told you to make nice." Vlad Masters scowls as he walks to the other side of the sleek black limousine. "To not embarrass me."

Jason frowns at the way he talks. His fingers itch, and something old lurches in his chest: the same old protectiveness that he used to feel whenever he and Danny were about to get into a fight. And then, later, when they would stand inside Bruce's galas with people who couldn't care less if they breathed or died.

Danny scowls right back at him, all venom and bite, and leans against the side of the car. "I did make nice -- as nice as I could when you dragged me here."

Vlad Master rolls his eyes, huffing. Jason's frown only deepens. It's not easy to make Danny do anything he doesn't want to. His sister has tried, so have his parents, as well as his teachers. But Danny is wild and so is Jason. Rebellion and disobedience -- no, independence -- cut into them from the streets like its broken glass.

Jason doesn't remember Danny ever mentioning knowing a Vlad Masters. They must have met after Jason died, then. He doesn't like him. He's the same as all the other socialites in that party. There is a greed in his eyes that Jason knows rots down to the core of him.

"I thought you would enjoy being here, little badger." Masters tries, and his tone makes Jason ruffle. As does the nickname. Danny's scowl only ever deepens, his fingers curling to dig nails into his palms. He looks at Masters like he wants him to burst into flames. "You are friends of the Waynes, I thought you would like the little reunion."

"Whether I did or didn't is none of your business." Danny says. The door clicks open on Masters' side, as if they remembered that they were on the street rather than in the car. Masters climbs into the back, and Danny opens the door. He only reaches in though, and pulls out a old hoodie.

Danny pulls it over his head, and his vest and button-down are hidden underneath it. "Don't wait up you old fruitloop, there's someone here I need to see." And he slams the door shut with more force than necessary.

(Jason makes a mental note to look into Vlad Masters. Who is he to Danny. How did they meet? There is an old animosity between each other that Jason has never seen before. Not even when they were on the streets. Not to this extent.)

Jason's heart seizes up. Danny's reminder early surges to the front of his mind. Right. That's right. He's going to go see him. Jason. He is going to lay flowers on his grave. He remembers that Jason likes zinnias. There are no florists open this late at night, Jason thinks.

He follows Danny from the rooftops. Danny sticks close to the buildings, slipping in and out of shadows. Jason wants to know where he learned how to do that. Where did he learn how to move without a sound?

Five years is a long time to be away from someone, Jason thinks. Something that fills him with dread. Five years is a long, long time. He's afraid that it's been too long. Will he still know Danny like he used to, if he asks? And if he doesn't?

More, more, more. More questions than answers. More things that Jason doesn't know about someone he used know to like the back of his hand. It scares him, and he hates it.

(There is scarring on Danny's hand that Jason has never seen before. Maybe that's the metaphor he was missing before. Maybe there are still more.)

Danny moves like a ghost down Gotham's streets, his hands shoved into his pockets without a care in the world. It is confusing. It is concerning. It is proof that more things have changed than Jason likes.

Danny somehow finds a florist open at this time of night, and buys a bouquet. And like he told the Red Hood, he buys zinnias. Reds and yellows. For a moment, Jason thinks that Danny knows. He wonders if he does.

What would he have told him, if he was a ghost? He told him that the Joker killed him. Maybe that means he told Danny he was Robin too, like he always wanted to. But couldn't, because it wasn't safe, and it wasn't just his secret to tell?

Why has nothing changed, now that he was alive again?

"Did you know," Danny starts, when he sits down at Jason's grave with flowers slipping gently from his fingers, before the tombstone below. Jason is as close as he can without being seen, hiding like a ghost. "That red zinnias mean stead beating of a heart?" He smiles sardonically, "You picked quite the flower, Jay."

(There is an echoing in his ears, Danny's voice faint in the back of his mind. Ghosts can hear you when you speak to their grave, did you know? Jason can hear him better than he should.)

Jason knows the irony. Perhaps it's got double the meaning now, now that he's alive again. Danny doesn't know that though, sitting before his grave with flowers that symbolize a beating heart. Between the two of them, Jason thinks that the only heart here is Danny.

(Between the two of them, the only heart here is one that's made between the two of them.)

"Yellow zinnias," Danny continues, resting his chin in his hand, "mean daily remembrance." His smile tilts on the axis of his mouth, a wrinkle between his brows. He looks pained. Hurt. There is no comment made. Like it doesn't need to be said.

Jason thinks he can hear it anyways, and his heart twists like someone took it and twisted it like a rag, trying to drain the dirty water out of the cloth. He hurts.

I miss you. Is what he hears. Is what Danny doesn't say. Is what Jason knows he's thinking anyways.

I am right here. Is what Jason wants to say, but doesn't. He is right here. But his feet are grave-bound to the floor, and a part of him feels like he's clawing out his own grave again. But the dirt falling is endless and merciless. He can't get free.

He bites his tongue, a lump in his throat. Shame wells in his heart and Jason wants to shrink away from this. His feet are grave-bound to the floor.

"I'm sorry for not visiting sooner." Danny says, hand dropping out of his chin to pick at the ends of his sleeves. His smile fades into a frown. His voice wobbles. "I'm sorry, I don't have an excuse. I should have."

Please don't be. Jason thinks. He doesn't think he can be upset about it, not when Danny is laying yellow flowers on his grave that mean remembrance. i think of you daily. Not when Danny was going to kill the Joker for him.

Jason still doesn't know what to think of that. He still isn't sure if it's real or not.

"I went to one of Bruce's galas today." Danny says, and Jason knows. He saw him there. Danny smiles weakly. "I know, right? First time in five years. Vlad dragged me along, you remember him right?"

No, I don't. Jason thinks, and he feels a flutter of anxiety. A sense of impending doom. A choking dread. What else have I missed? He thinks again. Why doesn't he remember? Danny told him about Vlad, but it can only be from when he was a ghost. How long was he a ghost before he was revived? How often did he and Danny speak?

Jason doesn't like not knowing things, he doesn't like not knowing things about himself.

It would be so easy, a little voice whispers, to reveal himself now. To step forward and take his helmet off. To tell Danny that he was alive. To demand answers that only Danny could know.

But then what? When Danny inevitably asks his own questions? About how long Jason's been alive? Why he was dressed the way he was? Why he didn't say anything earlier, on the balcony?

(But he did say it earlier, when he offered Danny the cigarette and silently asked him for his thoughts.)

Jason is afraid of what Danny might think of him, if he tells him what he's done. About the blood on his hands and the bridges he's burned. What if telling him is just more gasoline on another bridge, with Danny holding the match? He stays silent. Fear is a powerful motivator. It's a powerful deterrent, too.

"The asshole blackmailed me into coming." Danny says, drawing his knees up to his chest. He looks disinterested. Annoyed, actually. Like what he is saying isn't sending alarm bells through Jason's mind. Like what he's saying doesn't concern him. "It's really dumb, actually."

He sighs, long and tired. There is grief etched into every line and pore in his face. "I could have handled it without even needing to come to the gala, I've done it before." He mutters when his eyes open. His fingers brush against the petals of the bouquet.

(And that only sends more alarm bells ringing in Jason's mind. Red lights blaring. Distress fills the cavity of his lungs. What has he missed?)

"I only agreed because I missed you," Danny says, "and Bruce. He invited me to come over sometime soon, to catch up. I agreed and I'm not sure why I did."

Jason didn't know that.

Danny continues talking. Jason listens in dutifully. He feels like a stranger imposing on his own grave. It's ridiculous. It makes sense. He feels like he should slink away and let Danny talk to his grave in peace. He cannot bring himself to move.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he's sitting in front of him, like it's the good old days and they're back in Jason's room in the manor. Staying up late and trading stories back and forth. Sneaking out to the balcony and climbing onto rooftops they’re not supposed to go on.

Jazz is getting her psychology degree. Him and Sam had a big fight a few years ago, but they’re better now. Tucker wants to start his own tech business.

And on and on Danny goes, rambling about every little thing he can think of in the last five years since they last talked. He jumps back and forth between topics, when he remembers something he cuts to it. And then jumps back off to the next thought passing through his mind.

"I don't know what I want to do." Danny says, finally, after he exhausts every other topic to talk about. "I wanted to be an astronaut, but now I'm not so sure." His knees draw up to his chin, and he looks so sad. He looks nineteen. Small despite his size.

Were they really just nineteen, verging on twenty? Jason feels older among his years. Fourteen feels so far away.

Danny breathes in slowly, it's a sound that trembles. From where he stands, Jason sees Danny's eyes film over with tears. He makes a choked out sound that sounds like a terrible mix of a laugh and a sob.

"Where did you go?" He whispers. He tries to smile, and it is this pained, awful thing that drops within a second. Fingers clutch at his legs, diggings wrinkles into the fabric. "I know you're still here. Where did you go?"

There is no answer. Guilt is an animal with claws, and it burrows into Jason's heart to make itself home between the tendons. Tears slide from Danny's eyes down his cheeks. He still cries for him, five years later. Five years after. Jason feels worse.

"I haven't stopped looking for you." Danny continues, his voice cracks, and the words run over Jason's ears like water sliding off a duck's back. He doesn't hear it at first -- no, he doesn't understand it at first. And then when he does, he plunges his hands into the waters of his mind to drudge it back up.

You're looking for me? Do you know I'm alive?

It's another question to Jason's never-ending list.

"You might as well tell me where you are now." He smiles again; tries to. It wobbles, lips pulling back to show teeth as more tears spill over and carve red marks down Danny's face. "Or I'll find Cujo and sick him on you. He's gettin' real good at tracking things you know."

Jason doesn't know who Cujo is. But it sounds like a dog. He knows Danny's always wanted one, but their apartments would never allow it. It's not like his parents could afford one either.

There is a silence that hangs over them, with only the sound of the city around them. Danny seems to tremble more and more as each second passes, until finally a bubble pops. His smile drops, and so do his knees that were pressed into his chest.

He doesn't say a thing, not with words anyways. He hunches over and hugs himself with nails that dig into his elbows, failing to stifle a years' old grief. Jason wants to flee, lest he breaks his word to himself and steps out to console and dry Danny's falling tears. It feels like a betrayal unto himself to only stand there and watch him drown in his grief.

Guilt is a thing with claws, and Jason leaves the cemetery with hatred eating his tongue. Danny deserves the privacy that a ghost cannot give him. Jason may no longer be a ghost, but he is still the next best thing. either way I'm left holding onto the shovel and rope digging in the dirt finding bones, finding ghosts

#dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc crossover #childhood friends au #dead on main #really thought long and hard about whether or not danny should kill the joker in this update #but that feels too soon #i feel like a few more things would need to be established before the Joker's inevitable end #so this is not half as long as the first part but this also only addresses the immediate aftermath of Red Hood's meeting with Danny #rather than spanning over multiple years building up Jason and Danny's relationship and jason's death and danny's return to gotham #word count: 3k #i'm a little disappointed i wanted to get to 9k like before but i think Jason's pov deserves a little more attention on its own #im still unsure of whether or not i should have added more or not

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ohitslen · 9 months

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Guess who had a little too much fun with the pathetic reincarnation AU idea :))

To summarize! WW gets reincarnated in a very distant future where humanity is more settled down in the planet. He remembers everything and decides to keep living his life as normally as he is able to. That is until he meets his neighbor when he moved to a new apartment.

(More below the cut)⬇️

He was an absolute weirdo of a guy who looked just like Vash in so many ways yet was so different in many others at the same time.

He pretends that his system isn’t going haywire every time he is around the man, the one that resembles someone he cared for so deeply in a life that wasn’t his but remembers all too well. He decides to pretend he doesn’t know Vash because he really doesn’t, not this one at least.

Meanwhile, Vash is going through a very trippy existential crisis for seeing Wolfwood again after what felt like dozens of centuries. This could clearly not be him however because, well, he knows why. So he pretends not to know him because wouldn’t that be weird if he acted like he did?

They avoid each other like the plague, the beautiful and horrible emotions that swarmed on their insides too much to bear just by the presence of the other. They could slip at any moment so it was better to evade the neighbor.

The thing here is, that life has never gone how they want it since ever.

#MANY IDEAS WAAAAA EXPLODING IMPLODING PLODING #It’s so funny to think about how fucked up these two are and put em in a sitcom kinda situation #I have much more sketched out but it’s gonna take some time because of how busy I am rn #this is something I did in my little spare time I gave to myself because oh I HAD to #I think of the sunglasses that Vash wears are that color bc they reminded him of WW ones and bought them on s whim #the red jacket is the stampede one since it’s design is more modern and fit much better for the whole environment!#and WW is shorter in this lifetime because I said so. fully on board with them being the same build #but for this. for this he has to look up at Vash and be hit with the I feel so Small now.#as in. intimidated. he’s afraid of Vash bc of how weird he acts around him it drives him nuts #Vash is much more imposing now somehow. most likely due to his ancient nature for that time but WW doesn’t know this ofc #I WANT TO SAY SO MUCH MORE WAAA NO MORE UNI AU AFTER THE FIC IS DONE #ITS THIS ONE IVE DECIDED.#trigun #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #vashwood #wolfwood #vash #nicholas trigun #trigun fanart #trigun au #reincarnation au #lenssi draws #lenssi writes #im really enjoying scanning the mechanical pencil drawings I do. the texture is so crumchy

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rakkuntoast · 6 months

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holding onto hardcore season 4 like my life depends on it cuz i love the lore, i love his world i love how passionate he is about it and i hate how sometimes little love it gets from the latter half of the people that only stick to qsmp streams

cuz its the little details and dedication he puts to each build that makes it so special to me, the history and storytelling behind each build while still giving it a purpose and function and how much genuine love he has for it, even when we give him shit about him downplaying his own abilities he's proud of what he's built

like hell the fact that he is going to revisit old locations to add more to them its just so ausefh i love passion projects, i love being passionate about things people are passionate about

#txt post #i am just yapping about things that i love cuz yk? fuck everything i love what im passionate about and im not going to shut up about it #philza s4 #hcs4 needs more love. seeing phil just pull the “sorry q smp stream is later but you can stick around if you want for hardcore” cuz like #I AM HERE FOR HARDCORE. THIS IS WHAT I LOVE THIS IS WHAT MAKES ME COME BACK #i am glad that hcs4 canon cuz his hc world is sick as fuck and people should bully him more into bulding more cool stuff #like people dont even talk how he's a damn pioneer on builds and its so wild to me cuz yk where those came from? goddamn him spending #100 hours in his hardcore world for the fun of it #philza

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lord-squiggletits · 5 months

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One of my favorite parts of phase 2 (and indeed one of the few moments I resonated with IDW Prowl) was when the neutrals were coming back to Cybertron and Prowl said that he refused to let Autobots be pushed aside and overruled after they were the ones who fought for freedom for 4 million years (the exact wording escapes me atm).

And I mean, that resentment still holds true even once the colonists come on bc like. As much as it's true that Cybertron's culture is fucked up, and as funny as it can be to paint Cybertronians as a bunch of weirdos who consider trying to kill someone as a common greeting not important enough to hold a grudge over.... The colonists POV kind of pissed me off a lot of times, as did the narrative tone/implications that Cybertronians are forever warlike and doomed to die by their own hands bc it just strikes me as an extremely judgemental and unsympathetic way to deal with a huge group of people with massive war PTSD and political/social tensions that were rampant even before the war?

Like, imagine living in a society rife with bigotry and discrimination where you get locked into certain occupations and social strata based on how you were born. The political tension is so bad there's a string of assassinations of politicians and leaders. The whole planet erupts into an outright war that leads (even unintentionally) to famine and chemical/biological warfare that destroys your planet. Both sides of the war are so entrenched in their pre-war sides and resentment for each other that this war lasts 4 million years and you don't even have a home planet any more. Then your home planet gets restored and a bunch of sheltered fucks come home and go "ewww why are you so violent?? You're a bunch of freaks just go live in the wilderness so that our home can belong to The Pure People Who Weren't Stupid And Evil Enough To Be Trapped In War" and then a bunch of colonists from places that know nothing about your history go "lol you people are so weird?? 🤣🤣 I don't get why y'all are fighting can't you just like, stop??? Oh okay you people are just fucked up and evil and stupid then" ((their planets are based on colonialism where their Primes wiped out the native populations btw whereas the Autobots and OP in particular fought to save organics. But that never gets brought up as a point in their favor)) as if the damage of a lifetime of war and a society that was broken even before the war can just magically go away now that the war is over.

Prowl fucking sucks but he was basically the only person that pointed out the injustice of that.

And then from then on out most of the characters from other colonies like Caminus and wherever else are going "i fucking hate you and your conflicts" w/ people like literal-nobody Slide and various Camiens getting to just sit there lecturing Optimus about how Cybertronians are too violent for their own good and how their conflicts are stupid, with only brief sympathetic moments where the Cybertronians get to be recognized as their own ppl who deserve sympathy before going right back to being lambasted.

Like I literally struggled to enjoy the story at multiple points because there was only so much I could take of the characters I knew and loved being raked over coals constantly while barely getting to defend themselves or be defended by the narrative so like. It was just fucking depressing and a little infuriating to read exRID/OP

#squiggposting #and like dont get me wrong barber wasnt trying to make cybertronians the bad guys or whatever #it's just a problem with his writing where like. he has A Message he wants to send #and so he uses the entire story literally just for The Message even if it involves bullshit plotlines #or familiar characters ppl were reading about for the past decade being shit on by OCs made up to fill a new roster #like barber's writing tends to lean way too much on a sort of lecturing tone #without giving proper care towards including moments where characters get to like. fucking express themselves and share their side #sort of like how barber couldnt be bothered to write pyra magna and optimus actually talking to each other during exrid #and instead during OP ongoing pyra is suddenly screaming about how OP is unteachable #even tho she never even tried to teach him bc she and OP never interacted bc i guess barber couldnt be bothered #he just needed someone to lecture OP so fuck making the story make sense or like letting OP get to say anything in defense #this is the infuriating part of barber's writing bc i think he has incredible IDEAS and was in charge of the lore i was most interested in #but most of the time his execution sucks and he's basically just mid with a few brilliant moments occasionally #or like he has a message about the cycle of violence he wants to convey #but his narrative choices trying to convey that theme made his story come off as super unsympathetic to the ppl who suffered #to the point where barber actively kneecapped some scenes that couldve been super fucking intense and emotional #in favor of the characters lecturing each other or some stupid plot to criticize OP #that time in unicron where windblade screamed about how this is their fault and then arcee replied that her planet is build on coloniation #shouldve happened more often than literally the last series of the ocntinuity. like goddamn stfu about your moral superiority #when your own sins are right fhere lol

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