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#I should write a fic tbh

swordsmans · 2 months

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i just really, really love the idea of zoro having no real "survival skills" because he had a much more traditional (if atypical) childhood/youth than most of the crew. bandit heritage aside, he was raised in a tight-knit and relatively peaceful community with (at best) agricultural outskirts. he doesn't leave until he's much older, at which point he becomes a bounty hunter as a way to make money (to pay for food, shelter, etc. presumably in villages, towns, and cities). we know from the non-canon johnny and yosaku backstories that he "hunted" for bounties in cities/towns, at least partially.

meanwhile luffy has been running around the wilderness since he was like seven years old, securing his own food, building fire and shelter, and just generally toughening up/learning how to live in nature. we know he had a pretty extensive knowledge of bugs and how to catch them, so with that + his childhood i don't think it's a stretch to assume he also has an understanding of edible plants and non-monstrous wildlife (even if its not all applicable outside the East Blue). he's survived on his own in the wilderness for years at a time at least twice in canon.

i think it's fun to think of them having... some sort of "zoro is lost in more ways than one" kinda vibe early on in their journey, especially since they're constantly broke pre-timeskip and we know that at least by little garden the crew has started hunting and foraging to supplement their stores. you could absolutely rope the rest of the east blue grew into this, but zoro is still sort of the outlier with his background.

i dunno. maybe i just like the image of luffy trying to teach zoro how to hunt or fish and both of them just having the dumbest time with it. luffy would be really earnest but impatient--and zoro would be stubborn about admitting he doesn't know shit but would still listen and absorb anyway.

luffy having no clue how to start small and work up to new skills, so they end up going after massive wild boars or something as a first or second lesson and zoro just rolls with it because sure, yeah, thats normal. what the hell does he know? (and also hes fucking. zoro. so.)

or luffy teaching zoro to fish normally but also like a bear fishes (standing knee-deep in the water and catching fish with his bare hands) because it looks more fun that way and he cant. and zoro just fucking up soooo bad but getting really competitive anyway, even though luffy is just, like, sitting on a nearby rock yelling (frankly terrible) directions at him or something. zoro catches nothing and luffy tells him he looks stupid getting angry at the river so of course zoro is going to master fucking. bare-handed fishing because the man's got one braincell and its 99% stubborn pride.

he fucking sucks at starting a fire, wouldnt even consider building proper shelter, and in general would not make it 0.2 seconds outside a populated environment without his captain--a guy raised by the jungle and ace, who was basically a wild animal himself.

idk. survival-competent luffy is very near and dear to my heart.

#not really a country/city dynamic because its like... not that. but luffy is basically the east blue les stroud and thats so funny to me #a bear grylls kinda guy #which is to say nothing of their differences in formal education #dunno if ill write another fic about it but its like... the other side of math/bilingual zoro headcanons to me #i think about this more often than i should tbh #zolu #gyro.txt

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purpleshadow-star · 8 months

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Imagine if Nico could learn to control when he turns into shadows.

Like, in The Blood of Olympus Nico would start fading after shadow traveling too much, and sometimes Reyna and Coach Hedge wouldn't be able to touch him, and one time he even accidentally walked through a tree. Imagine if he learned to control that intangibility.

Imagine if he could just turn parts of his body into shadows. Imagine if, in a fight, someone swings at him, and he knows he can't dodge in time, so he turns into shadows for a second so the weapon goes right through him, and while his enemy is confused he uses the distraction to land the final blow.

Imagine if he could just walk/reach through walls and doors and stuff.

I just think that, for someone with the title of ghost king (and as a child of the Underworld), he deserves more ghost-like powers.

#i might write a fic about this 🤔#we'll see #i just think itd be so cool #he would be the best at a haunted house #and it would be so useful in fights #maybe now that he's taking better care of himself post tsats he'll have enough energy to not get so tired after using his powers #so itll be safer to start experimenting with smth like this #tbh i think nico has the best potential power-wise bc the underworld is so vast so he could potentially have a lot of different abilities #hazel too tbh #like we've seen that nico can control the earth/rocks so i bet hazel has some contol over the dead and she just hasnt really tried yet #but im getting off topic lol #point is i think nico should have the ability to basically become a ghost at will (but not in the dying way)#nico di angelo #riordanverse #rick riordan #heros of olympus #pjo hoo toa

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moonshynecybin · 3 months

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Hi! I have been thinking about Marc and the ways he expresses his anger... giving the cold shoulder... the silent treatment if you will (he will speak ABOUT vale but not TO vale let alone WITH vale)... need your input please....

hmm good question.... this got. STUPID long sorry

uhhh marc is, in general, good at keeping his (negative) emotions in check. like i think marc loooooves to think of himself on track as a mature, controlled, and rational dude. above distraction. a killer. a cyborg. idk his dad has talked about how he doesnt really complain much about injury and there's also allll these stories about what a mature kid he was... so i think that when he was young - ESPECIALLY in a racing sense because he was so much younger than most of the people he was competing against - he internalized that in order to do all the stuff he wants to do racing-wise, he reallyyyy has to keep a level head and not well. act his age! and i think that extends to a lot of how he manages his emotions today (at least in a public setting). even in places where im pretty sure hes PISSED (sepang. phillip island 2013.) he just kind of. visibly contains himself. not a confrontational dude in the outright sense he'll clench his jaw and try to work through it.

which is part of what makes his valentino-oriented crazy so interesting. bc people were noticing that marc in 2015 was kind of. being weird. as his and valentino's relationship deteriorated. like they were both outwardly very much like we can keep it on track :) until the big fallout towards the end of the year but uhhhh. well marc has said that vale started pulling back in september of 2014 like he was noticing SOMETHING, and they clashed on track A LOT in 2015, and i think marc sensed vale cooling on him and freaked a lil. hashtag neurotic 22 year old moments. he is my favorite crazy ex girlfriend. like usually he IS good at separating that stuff out and managing his emotions in the racing sense but in assen that year when vale overtook him off track after they made contact he raised a BIG stink with race direction and actually had some uh. not especially chill quotes about it. (it should be noted marc was also flopping for the first time in his motogp career. like in his brain he stopped winning AND vale stopped talking to him he was goin through it) adn all the reporters noticed too they were like. why werent you sucking and fucking in parc ferme. like vale's left turn wrt to spaniard sabotage comes outta nowhere but people WERE noticing that things were changing. i bet marc noticed too. BUT they are not the type of people to talk about these things so they keep it to vague flirting in presscons and escalating on-track tension slash proxy wars waged in race-direction contexts... liek truly you are 22 you are not going to keep your championship title and your hot sports idol bestie is no longer flirting with you on twitter and you COULD just talk to him about that but you'd rather DIE so youre going to ask honda to back you up to race direction about your last race where you DEFINITELY lost bc winning is the ONLY thing thatll make you feel better. even though thatll help convince your hot sports idol that you are engaging in a benedict arnold level betrayal scheme against him. an insane time to be marc marquez. 2015 really kind of is a study on how both of them handle losing: NOT WELL.

and then the thing about sepang is that then the lid is blown clean off and marc spends the ENTIRE race being annoying on purposeeeee. hes so fucking pissed and hurt at valentino that he decides to get under his skin for REALSIES instead of focusing on his race. like idk he probably would have fought hard for the win without the drama that how he works but uh. i think he was being annoying specifically to bite at vale's edges. and part of that is bc marc is naturally and effortlessly annoying. but i think part of it was SPITE. like his team advised him not to speak on anything from that presscon and he didnt, but he can still fuck him over on track. get under his skin. like he cant tell vale to his FACE that he's angry and confused and hurt. but he CAN let him know on that fucking racing line. where he cant be ignored. idk like i cant see marc letting anyone else get under his skin like that.

AND another big ass exception to the marc marquez anger management philosophy is from misano 2019 where vale messes with his qualifying lap. a lovely anon sent me some videos of marc talking to the press and jesus christ i dont think ive ever seen him angrier oh my god. AND the anon also linked the race from that weekend where he won and he celebrated harder than ive seen him celebrate some TITLE wins like he went. notably nuts. the commentators were all like uhhhh. he mustve REALLY wanted to get one over on vale adjfhlkdh... idk if any of this answered your question but his relationship to his emotions fascinates me hes so weirddddd. and its interesting to me that he can shrug off jorge ruining his last race at honda and be friendly but also be like. kind of aloofly pissed at bezz. because of valentino! he can repress the rest of it, but valentino shines through the cracks.

#its interesting bc theres also this tension with him where he keeps all of this tightly controlled and then he also REALLY wants you to know #about it. like in his docuseries hes like okay i know we have to talk about valentino :/ which is CRAZY bc he is producing that series #and its about his comback from injury. he could have EASILY left it out but he wanted to set the record straight #and also pull the punch/make it seem like hes no longer invested by saying he doesnt wanna talk about it #idk i think he was smart to keep his mouth shut in sepang 2015 but it CLEARLY cost him #like i think his own reservedness confines him sometimes and he chafes. and it bubbles out. like marc dont you just wanna go apeshit.#anyways this isnt even my entire marc and anger thesis like i need to go back to grad school lmao #callie speaks #motogp #asks #marc marquez #rosquez #tbh. i should just write some fic. hmm.#long post

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mediumgayitalian · 1 month

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She almost runs over her guitar on her way in the driveway.

For a second, the image is so obscene that she laughs. She’d gotten her hands on a permanent marker, when she was three, scrawled her name across the body with careful hands a tongue stuck out of her mouth in concentration. The N is backwards, and she’d creatively used the soundhole as the O. Hollered for Daddy to come look, to come ruffle her hair and swing her over his shoulders for a job well done.

He’d come to look, alright.

“Well, Helen,” he’d said to his wife, scrubbing a hand over his neck, “damn thing’s hers, now, I suppose.”

He’d always warned her to be careful with it. Scolded her for every sticker she’d slapped on the neck, every painted doodle on the face. Picked it up when she left it sprawled on the couch, placing it gently on the stand. Careful as he was with all her things, with her.

It’s strings-down on the pavement, now, half-crushed under the weight of her patched pink backpack. She takes a half step forward, chipped paint of her purple toenails scratching against the wood of the guitar. She crouches down and touches it, softly, wincing at the twang of the twisted strings.

“What…”

A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. She looks up just in time to catch the pale blue curtains swish quickly shut over the bow windows, to see the lights flick off.

Mouth dry, she touches her stomach. The swell is barely there — barely noticeable. Barely far along enough to feel the kick.

She wants to scream. She wants to run up to the door and bang on it ‘til Mama swings it open, wants to collapse to her knees and sob and beg for their forgiveness. Wants to tell them about how scared she’s been for months. Wants Mama to grip her hand in her calloused ones, sit her at the kitchen table and get her the exact type of tea that’ll settle her stomach and soothe her heartburn. Wants Daddy to smooth back her hair and press a kiss to the crown of her forehead, squeezing the curve of her shoulder. Wants Wally the cat to hop up onto her lap, mrrping and bumping his head into her sternum.

Instead, she swallows. She swings her backpack over her shoulders, picks her guitar gently off the cracked driveway, and walks straight-backed to her car. The key sticks in the lock, as it always does, and in her increasingly desperate attempts to force it open she twists the damn thing, and the key is sad and thin and bent when she yanks it out and she cries, almost, the tears build and build and build in her eyes, util suddenly she grits her teeth and decides that she will not. She shoves the key back in the lock and twists the other way, bending it back into shape, wrenching open the door and throwing her backpack in, relishing in the thunk as it hits the passenger door. With her guitar she’s gentler, barely, setting it neatly along the backseats and wrenching her hand back as hard as she can to make up for it.

She sits in the drivers seat so hard the whole car shakes. The steering wheel is warm, still, from the heat of her palms on the drive here from Molly’s house, because she’s been overheated lately. For the last four months, to be exact. Overheated and cranky and nauseous and heavy.

“Well,” she whispers, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. She wraps her arms around her stomach, squeezing her eyes shut, biting her tongue as hard as she can. “It’s you and me and sheer fucking will, I guess, kid.”

She rifles through her CDs until she comes across a case with a wood-pattern print and a man with a revolver lounging across it. She pulls out the scratched disc and feeds it carefully into the player, waiting for the deep baritone to rumble through her shit plastic speakers, and listens to the first bar, the second, the third.

But this is for real, so forget about me. Eight more minutes to go.

The light doesn’t come back on. The curtains don’t flick. Her Daddy doesn’t come runnin’ out the door, screaming for her to wait. Mama doesn’t follow out calmly after him. All there is is shadow, shadow, shadow, and the shape her guitar made upside down on the pavement.

She backs out of the driveway where she tripped and fell and lost her first tooth, and drives, and drives, and drives.

———

When she was little, her uncle took her to go see Alien.

He shouldn’t have. It was far too old a movie for a kid her age, and the clerk had told him so. But Noah Solace had a penchant for being stubborn and a chip in his shoulder, so he’d taken her anyway. He should have left when the alien leapt from its nest and definitely when one of the freaky little parasites burst from the guy’s chest, but he didn’t, and Naomi had watched frozen completely in her seat, palms sweating, spine rigid, squirming at the thought of something growing inside her. Of being betrayed by something that lived in the deepest recesses of her body.

The day after she leaves home, she taps her chewed-up fingernail on the sides of the wall-phone by a rest stop. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. The Bell logo is covered partially by someone’s tag, by a curved C and bubble O B A L T. Ironically, the worn Sharpie ink is purple.

617 343 7844. She knows the number by heart. She knows the song of dialling it like she knows Jolene. Bah-duh-duh bah-duhduh duh-bah-duhduh. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, four. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She sucks her lip into her teeth. Training her eyes on the purple COBALT tag, the obstructed Bell, the rainbow of wads of gum balled up in the corners, she presses the right buttons. Bahduhduh-bahduhduh-duhbahduhduh. Ring. Ring.

What is she doing. What is she doing.

Ring. Ring.

Naomi isn’t one for planning. She’s absent-minded, she knows she is. Flighty and distracted. Head in the clouds, never one to study. A coaster. A drifter. A real one, now.

Ring. Ring.

Hey, Uncle Noah. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I keep forgetting to respond to your letters. How am I? I’m great! I slept with a god and now I’m nineteen and knocked up and homeless, to boot. Wanna come pick me up?

Ring. Ring.

God, what is she doing. What is she doing.

Ring. Ring. Ri—

“Fuck d’you want?”

Low baritone. Gravelly. Rough, slurring. Sleepy?

“Hello? Can you hear me? Who’s this?”

Hey, Uncle Noah. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I keep forgetting to —

“Is this one’a them fuckin’ tele — fuck they called — tele…tele…”

— respond to your letters, great, nineteen knocked up —

“Tele…grams? Telefuckin…telemarketers! You one’a them fuckin’ telemarketers?”

— pick me up pick me up pick me up please —

“Swear t’a fuckin’ Jesus — I told you sons of bitches —”

— parasite —

“Ah, fuck you. You call here again I’mma fuckin’ —”

Click.

Riiiiiiinnnnnng.

She stares at her own finger on the receiver, white and bloodless. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.

You have disconnected. To reconnect your call, please —

She flings the phone from her hands, against the receiver, against the box, clink, clatter, bounce, tap tap tap tap tap tap against the pavement. Tap. Scritch. Tap tap tap. And flees to her car.

———

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

She blinks back at the yellow little fuel light, humming along to the stereo. She can push it for a while longer, probably. Maybe even to the district line.

What happens if she just drives? If she drives and drives and doesn’t stop. Lets the little light blinkblinkblink at her, keepin’ time with Reba McEntire and her dying husband. That’s the night when the lights went out in Georgia.

She’d have time to pull over, probably. Coast on the speed she was going, cut across to the gravel shoulder. There’s no one else around, anyway. She could recline her seat and cross her arms over her chest and watch the clouds through the dusty top of her windshield. Sleep through the night and wake with the mourning doves’ cooing. Then what? That’s the night that they hung an innocent man.

Walk, probably. On the side of the highway, along the stretch of dying grass and reedy weeds. Guitar on her back and backpack tucked under her arm, strolling under the balmy March sun and sing to the cawing crows, to the rushing cars. Well, don’t sell your soul to no backwoods Southern lawyer.

Someone’d pull up next to her, probably. A trucker or a group of hippies. Headed to Oregon, they might say, round glasses covering bloodshot red eyes. Need a ride? ‘Cause the judge in the town’s got bloodstains on his hands.

And she would need a ride. She’d sing for them, maybe. Pluck along to Hey Jude on her out-of-tune guitar and holler with the wind rushing in from the old broken windows. They’d know someone in Cali, of course they would, slip her their card. He’s a manager, he’s looking for some new talent. You’re just what he needs. Well, they hung my brother before I could say.

Right. A knocked-up nobody who’s paying for gas with her last few bills and the four quarters she found in a sticky mess of juice in her cup holder. She’ll go platinum, right up there with the Stones and the Roses. Naomi Solace, part-time mom, full-time country star. The tracks he saw while on his way.

She drifts off the exit to the first gas station she sees. The blink, blink, blink of the light irritates her, now.

The highway town she drifts through looks like a carbon copy of the dozens of others she’s been to in her life. The giant grey rest stop, the 24 hour McDonalds, the three separate Mattress Firms. She skips over the Buccees — the stupid mascot gives her the creeps — and pulls into the first gas station she sees. Dollar twenty a gallon. Jesus.

There’s an old man at the pump across from her. He stares as he pumps his gas. Nausea builds in her stomach, but whether that’s the gross factor or the avocado-sized mass growing inside her, but she doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. She sprints for the little convenience store at top speeds, shoving open the door and ignoring the startled cashier and stumbling into the little bathroom in the back, barely making it to the stained toilets before emptying the contents of her stomach. She can see the half-digested junior bacon cheeseburger she had for lunch. It makes her throw up more. It also makes her mourn the eighty-nine cents she spent on it. Fuck.

She walks back into the convenience store grimacing at the taste of her own mouth. Nobody tells you that mouthwash and water bottles account for approximately eight billion dollars of your pregnancy cost. Of course, Naomi has never asked, but that should be a bigger part of the condom ads.

Or abstinence ads. She’s not sure how helpful a piece of rubber is against godly sperm. Mary seemed to struggle with the ordeal. Godspeed to her — she gets why the Catholics are so bananas for her now. This shit is hard and she handled it like a champ. Good on you, Mother Mary.

“Just these?” the cashier asks hesitantly, poking at the travel mouthwash, the water bottles, the singular packaged pickle, and the tiny jar of strawberry jam. And the plastic spoon she grabs from the hot table.

“And pump number 5. Please.”

“…Twenty-three sixty.”

Gas and water and a snack.

Twenty five dollars.

She has to count out her coins, hyperaware if the cashier’s dirty look. She bites back a comment about how frustrating it must be for them to have to do their job when it’s so busy out, what with one customer. Shame. Because she’s used up her irresponsibility quota for the next few years, she reckons, so she oughtta bite her tongue.

Half her fortune poorer, she walks back out to her car. The gas nozzle is still sticking out if it. She puts it back while holding her breath — do gas fumes kill growing babies? They probably kill growing babies — and shoves open her trunk, digging around. Blanket — no. Forgotten impulse purchases from months ago — no. Umbrella — no. Grad cap — no, and also why.

Finally, she finds what she’s looking for. She climbs onto the hood of the car, digging into her jam pickle, and flips open the paper atlas, turning the many pages until the map of Texas stares out at her, huge and overwhelming.

Twenty-six dollars and forty-nine cents. That’s what she has left. ‘Round twenty bucks for a full tank — that’s what she has left. 400 miles on a full tank. Seven or so hours until she’s out of the state.

“I could leave,” she says aloud.

And go where? New Mexico? Barely. She’s nowhere near LA, she’s nowhere near New York; hell, she’s nowhere near Austin. She’s nowhere near anything. Not even the nearest Amtrak station. She could drive until she runs out of gas, leave her car on the side of the road, and walk — to where? To the desert? To some serial killer’s basement?

To fucking find Apollo again?

“This is ridiculous.”

Slamming the atlas closed, she stomps back into the convenience store.

“There a secondhand store near here?” she demands.

The cashier regards her for a moment. Taking her in, probably, her ratty jeans that she can’t button anymore, her stained pink sweater, the greasy mess of her hair. The jam sticking to the corner of her mouth and the sliver of stomach pushing over the waistband of her pants. Her peeling flip-flops.

“Not here,” they say finally. “Highway town, ma’am. Ain’t got shit but what you can see from the road. You wanna real store, you gotta head ten miles east to Blowshow.”

“There’s a town called Blowshow?” she asks incredulously.

“There’s a town called Sheffield,” replies the cashier, mouth twitching, “which no one calls Joansburg, on account that the mayor was caught with his secretary gumming his green bean behind his desk by the film crew of the local news station coming to talk about a recent policy change. It’s got a main road and a general store, and will most definitely have a secondhand store.”

Naomi nods, rocking back on her heels. “Anybody hirin’?”

“Well, I ain’t been to Blowshow since last Sunday. And even then only to come see my sister. I wasn’t lookin’ at help wanted signs.”

“There’s gotta be somethin’.”

The cashier hums. The busy themself with a stack of cigarette boxes behind the counter, fiddling with a strip of cardboard come loose.

“There’s a diner,” they admit. “Di’s. Worst turnover rate than any place I ever been to.” The glance over at her, eyebrows raised. “Frankly, you won’t last a quarter year.”

Instead of sneering something about bowing out quickly and how they must know lots about finishing early, because that’s gross and also uncalled for, Naomi simply walks out. She gets in her car and starts the engine and turns the radio to thirty, making the warbling over the speakers so warped she might as well be listening to static, and guns it east. Or what she’s pretty sure is east, anyway. It’s fifteen minutes the empty pothole roads give way to something that looks like it’s seen a person in the last forty years. A little house sits nestled in the trees, bikes strewn about the driveway. A few hundred yards down road is a jogger that she gives a wide berth. In minutes, she’s pulling into a proper town — a tiny town, with more trees than people, but a real town with a real purpose. She slows to a crawl, eyeing hand-painted banners and peeling signs until she finds what she’s looking for.

The secondhand shop is small, clustered, and smells like mothballs. A shelf of broken old toys blocks her view of the rest of it and any people that may live inside of it, so she steps aside it, stepping carefully around chipped tile and stacked up boxes, looking for the right section. (The right shelf, really; nothing in this store is big enough to be a section.)

She finds what she’s looking for in a dusty old corner near the very back. Behind a broken typewriter and an ancient fax machine, and more random wires and cables than she can count, is a little portable cassette player. A pair of wiry headphones are wound around the hunk of black plastic, foam ear muffs cracked and peeling, and the worn label on the side reads Isobel. She grabs the clunky old machine carefully, brushing the pads of her fingers over the peeling paper label, and holds it to her chest.

At home she has a proper CD Walkman. It’s pink and pretty and covered all over in shiny foil stickers, and it’s chipped on the side from when she dropped it down the stairs. It skips every sixth song of an album without fail and she has to skip three backwards and two forwards to hear it. She has a collection of CDs to go with it longer than her longest shelf, and they’re arranged by colour and favour.

On another shelf, she finds a series of chipped cassette tapes. She flicks through the selection, frowning, trying to restructure hopes that were set too high and read labels written thirty years ago.

“I’ve got an extra box of them by the counter,” says a voice, making her yelp.

“Christ alive, you could kill somebody,” she snaps.

The man shrugs. He wears the loudest shirt she has ever seen and cutoff shorts that are way too short for someone his age. There are streaks of blue in his white hair, and four sweatbands on his left wrist. Green purple grey yellow. One, two, three, four.

“I’ll take a look.”

She spends another ten minutes in silence. The box, at least, has a little more variety than the shelf, so she picks out what’s worth it. She ends up with a stack the size of her arm.

“I have ten dollars,” she lies, Mama’s lecture about showing your cards ringing in her head. “That cover it?”

“Beautifully,” says the man, shiny gold-tooth smile. His bug-eye spectacles gleam in the yellow light. He holds out his hand. “Ten bucks for the player and tapes.”

Looking him right in the eye, she hands him her last twenty-dollar bill. He glares, when he sees it, muttering something about liars and thieves. Strangely, he looks at her with a little bit of respect when he slams her change down onto the counter.

She walks back out to her car, unwinding the headphones as she does. She’s half-worried the ancient things will disintegrate in her hands, but they manage to stay whole, if a little warped. She slides in behind the wheel and pushes back the seat, settling against the itchy carpet upholstery. With a quick glance out the window to make sure there are no creeps, she pulls up her shirt, bunching it up around her ribs, and lowers the waistband of her jeans. She eyes her belly critically.

There’s definitely a bump. Not much she couldn’t explain away with a particularly filling lunch, but it’s hard and there and constantly kicking at her from inside. Slowly, feeling foolish all the while, she stretches out the headphones until both halves rest on either side of her stomach. She picks out one of the tapes, slides it in the player, and clears her throat.

“Listen, kid,” she says, trying to sound less embarrassed than she feels, “I don’t want some lame baby who doesn’t know that Tina Turner was country first, okay? That’s a — waste of my time.” She clears her throat, hovering over the play button. “I better get some engagement.”

The twangy guitar is loud enough that she can hear it through the headphones. Or maybe they’re just that bad. Either way, Alien Parasite should be able to hear it just fine, amniotic fluid be damned.

“‘Means your true love daddy ain’t comin’ back,” she sings along. She closes her eyes and relaxes against the recliner seat, bare skin tingling. “‘Cause I’m movin’ on, I’ll soon be gone. Mhm, hm hm. So I’m movin’ on.’”

At the crest of the bridge, as the guitar speeds up and beats get harder, there’s a point of pressure right above her navel. Another, a few seconds later, at her pelvis. A third right below her ribs.

“Acrobatic little freak,” she mumbles fondly, smiling at her stretched taught skin.

She adjusts the headphones, adjusts herself, and turns the music up louder.

———

#naomi solace i love you #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #naomi solace #will solace #naomi solace & will solace #angst #will solace backstory #should be a tag tbh #pregnancy #teen pregnancy #my writing #fic #longpost #lowkey this is original work. but whatever

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darubyprincx · 1 year

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Well damn, Mumbo was back.

Evil Xisuma didn't have a comms device of their own. They figured this out because the man himself flew up to them asking about diamonds.

"Uhh, hello, X?"

"What?" they asked, turning around to see a very nervous Mumbo (oh, who were they kidding, he was always nervous) standing behind them, holding a shulker box.

"Oh, you're not- my bad," he said, stepping backwards. "Sorry. I thought you were Xisuma."

"That's a first," muttered EX. "How the Hels did you fuck up that badly?"

"Right, you can swear," sighed Mumbo. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I just- do you know where X is?"

"Nope."

"Okay," said Mumbo. "Do you think you'd be able to help me with-" [he waved his free hand vaguely] "diamond stuff?"

EX had zero idea how this man found them, or what the hell he wanted, or even why he was talking to them at all. Most Hermits just avoided this part of the Nether, and let them do their thing. But here Mumbo was, just standing there, diamonds in hand. Sure. Why not.

"Elaborate," they said, leaning back against the wall.

"Okay," started Mumbo. "I left the server a few months back to go on a trip, right?"

"Allegedly."

"When I- when I left, I was the richest Hermit. And then I got back, and I thought well I'm definitely not the richest Hermit anymore, but then I checked in my vault and there was substantially more diamonds in there than I remember?"

"What does any of this have to do with me or X?" asked EX flatly. At this point, they were just considering telling him to shove off and let them continue building this wall. This was a waste of time.

"I was wondering," said Mumbo, looking anywhere but their face (did this man go to therapy for anxiety? EX sure hoped he did. This was embarrasing.), "if you had perhaps lost any?"

What the fuck?

"I know you haven't been around," said Mumbo with a sigh, "but this is why I was looking for X first, and I just got really lost on my way there, and maybe there might be a chance that you-"

EX paused him with a wave of their hand. "You are smoking warped mushrooms if you think I have been anywhere close to the Overworld," they said, walking closer. "If this had been any other person, or any other situation, I would have said that oh yeah, I took your puny little diamonds, but this? I'm not even going to pretend that I have. Come on. Seriously, how did you get all the way out here?"

"I thought it was worth a shot," said Mumbo, stepping back two paces and almost tripping over a dint in the netherrack. "Since, y'know, that was sort of your whole thing in season 8-"

EX sighed. "We don't talk about season 8."

"Sorry."

There was a dead silence of about 10 seconds in which EX turned back around and continued building the wall. Hearing no footsteps or rockets, they turned back around and raised an eyebrow. "X's portal is about three thousand blocks southwest of here. If you want to make it before the sun goes down in the Overworld- maybe it's already set, who knows- you should probably get on it."

Mumbo cleared his throat. "Uh. Yeah that'd be good. Thanks?"

"Do you go to therapy for anxiety?"

"What?"

"You need therapy. Get out of my swamp."

Mumbo nodded and, almost dropping the shulker box, flew off in the direction that EX had specified.

They watched him go for a while longer, hands on hips. What a guy. What a weird fucking guy.

#ray's tag #mcyt #hermitcraft #mumbo jumbo #evil xisuma #writing #i was like ok so what if mumbo while trying to figure out where his missing diamonds went #somehow bumbled into ex instead of x #and thus this fic was born #i think that ex is just like. Ok. This guy is so pathetic that i'd feel bad extorting him. What the fuck is he doing.#and just doesn't out of... contempt?? pity?? both???#it's hilarious how i dont know how to characterize this guy at all. we never interact with canon EX. tbh sourcesuma should have done better #keys' writing

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bisaster-energy · 3 months

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big believer in keiko and kuwabara being besties like. you're my best friend's best friend and instead of it being awkward they realize "hey i really like hanging out with you!" this is ofc extremely detrimental to yusuke who now has two people on his ass

they share textbooks keiko quizzes kuwabara til he drops and she asks for fitness advice. why do i think this? I simply think it'd be funny asf if Keiko randomly got abs of steel. yusuke walks in on them doing sit ups while testing each other on vocab and almost breaks into tears.

"Keiko stop turning kuwabara into a fucking nerd he's wasting all his time studying instead of goofing off" "yusuke shut up and feel my abs" "holy shit these guys are like rock hard" "right??"

Kuwabara gets glasses and yusuke genuinely thinks it's a bit at first but kuwa is like "man seriously I realized part of the reason school was hard was cos I couldn't make out the words in my books half the time I need these things fr" classic yyh collapse in shock moment

Keiko and Kuwa are there for each other when yusuke goes off doing god knows what in Makai. They know he'll be back but it can be shitty not knowing what he's doing when he'll be back. Kuwabara reassures her that Yusuke does give a shit even when he leaves and Keiko reminds Kuwabara of why he doesn't need to drop everything and join him. He'll be back he'll be back he'll be back.

Kuwabara can only make simple meals Shizuru forced him to learn and Keiko doesn't really cook even tho her parents own a restaurant so when yusuke is in the human world there's cheers and applause "finally I get to eat 🙏🏼" "aren't you guys graduating college soon how are you surviving when I'm not here" "get back in the kitchen boy" "yeah I need another bowl 😌" "im poisoning ur food"

because girls and guys apparently can't just hang out school mates are sure Keiko is dating kuwabara but some think she's with yusuke and others think the two are fighting over her and she just looks at them like they're stupid if anyone ever asks directly

as for Kuwabara nobody knows whether he has a gf or a bf cos sometimes a polite brunette with a sweet smile visits him on campus and they talk at a picnic table (she's seen hitting him sometimes tho) but other times a guy with slicked back hair and devil may care attitude like. swaggers up to kuwa when he's with some classmates and drops a homemade lunch in his lap "you forgot this dumbass" "ahh thanks yusuke you're a life saver 🥺" "just eat your food" inside is the cutest box lunch and yusuke's glare keeps the people kuwa was with from cracking jokes. kuwabara acts like this is very normal

anyway i just think it'd be cool if they hung out and yusuke was equal parts delighted and grumpy about it

#this could be poly tbh i was really just going for a friendship angle but literally either makes sense #I just think Keiko would randomly wanna get fit to put some energy into something besides school and kuwa could help #yusuke is like oh no my smart friend and my strong friend are merging their traits and hanging out w/o me :( by talos...#he doesn't get left out ofc but they do gang up on him sometimes because they think it's hilarious #it's not lost on me the idea of yusuke being into intellectuals considering how smart those 2 are #I was just thinking about this cos I'm writing a kuwameshi fic rn #And it's Keiko pov so it focuses on her relationship with Kuwabara and how she fits into his and yusuke's dynamic #yu yu hakusho #keiko yukimura #yusuke urameshi #kazuma kuwabara #i guess i should tag this #kuwameshi #cos i do look at through that lens #idk if they have a poly ship name tho #important to note that when kuwa thanks yusuke for bringing lunch he's being insufferable and #using the the most over the top sweet voice poking fun at yusuke for basically malewifing himself

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oflights · 1 month

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my whole thing with the snape redemption arc (beyond it just being poorly written) and harry's reaction to it is just like. when you're a kid and an adult treats you poorly, that's a really hard grudge to shake. especially later when you're an adult and you look back and you're like "that grown ass man hated me, a kid...he should've known better...i'm an adult now and i know better, i would never treat a kid that way"

there just doesn't exist a calculus in my mind that goes "snape was in unrequited love with my mother - low key caused her death - took his guilt and anger out on children + vaguely protected me and contributed to the war effort = he's a hero and i respect him" for harry. it makes no sense!

snape never actually redeemed himself for the harm he caused harry and other kids. the narrative never even attempts to hold him accountable for that and harry is just like "meh he helped when it counted for these loser ass friendzone reasons" and is fine with it.

#hp #snaterism #tbh this makes me glad jkr never attempted a redemption arc for draco because it would've been a mess lol #but the draco equivalent is like he still thinks muggleborns should die but like rescues harry at some point #one does not actually fix the other and earn narrative forgiveness!!#this is one of those things i can't get past or engage with much in fic bc i'd have to buy into this conceit #that snape canonically redeemed himself #and i just cannot #as usual though #it's not that deep it's just bad writing

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bolithesenate · 3 months

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not a single day passes where I don't think about the implication of legends(?)-comics jedi master Vima-Da-Boda

she *has* to have been in her prime during the clone wars, which puts her right into the time frame of anakin 'stress ulcer over my secret wife's secret pregnancy' skywalker.

why am i saying this?

because this woman, a jedi master from a *geneological jedi dynasty*, also got pregnant, had a whole daughter and TRAINED HER AS HER OWN PADAWAN (the daughter then wdnt off and fell and got herself killed but thats besides the point)

what i'm saying is that between Vima (and the whole Sunrider Dynasty tbh) and Yula Braylon (who hid her child but Yoda explicitly states that they would have helped her had she told them) and the several other jedi with close family bonds in and outside the order WHY do people keep insisting that the jedi were anti-family hardliners?

the jedi order, at least in legends, has *always* allowed its members to marry and procreate if they choose to. you can even train your own children! it happens all the time!!

ki-adi mundi has five wives and idk how many children, plo koon's niece is a jedi, adi gallia and stass allie are cousins and both became high council members, vima trains her own daughter as her padawan and yula could have announced arath as her kid no problem.

and that is not even going into jedi families in the old/high republic times (remember, the order's most famous grandmaster, nomi sunrider, became a jedi at 30 after her already jedi husband was killed and she too had a daughter which she trained as a padawan)

also, you know, canon is free real estate anyways.

but for those who are so hellbent on saying that the jedi are anti-marriage/family hardliners, no they are not & they never were.

i hope that helps 👍🏼

#im not saying this to discredit anyone who wants to play with the concept of a vow of celibacy/non-attachment jedi order #i'm just saying that thats not what the source material implies #you know you're free to do whatever you want in fic 🤷🏻‍♀️#i just am a staunch defender of the jedi order being quite a bit more open about things than large parts of the fandom think it is #like. what reason could there POSSIBLY be in-universe for someone to not just grab the next best nomi sunrider holocron #and have the recording of THE grandmaster herself tell anyone off that tries to go 'all familial bonds are attachment' or whatever #seeing as the sunrider line kept producing jedi over literal milennia i think their existence alone should shut up any naysayers #but whatever #i think about the sunriders way too much tbh #random boli thoughts #star wars meta #me writing #jedi order #the jedi

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greenerteacups · 19 days

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hi GT!

Lionheart had me the moment you kicked it off with “it’s a nice day to start again.” Might i ask why you chose that particular line?

And, if you havent already answered to this emoji:

❄️

P.s: you have my eternal gratitude for creating the most brilliant piece of writing i’ll ever read. I shout about it from the rooftops, share it on my socials, requested my spouse to read it so we may discuss it together (in lieu of a present for my 30th birthday), et cetera.

I see from your URL you are a fellow lad of taste.

There's a couple things going on in the epigraph for Book 1. On one level, it's a lyric from the first muggle song I picture Draco listening to on his walkman at the end of the book, so there's a cute full-circle thing there. The second layer is the theme of change and redemption, which, in Lionheart, doesn't so much come from major moments or self-sacrifice, but from the slow, grueling, everyday work of living, and living better. It's a nice day to start again because every day is. You always have the opportunity to start making better choices, no matter what lies behind you. That's the thesis of any Draco redemption arc, right? You have to imagine that he could have chosen to be better.

And then thirdly, there's the audacity of doing a full Hogwarts canon rewrite, a good 30 years after the original books came out, millions upon millions of words of fanfic later, and basically asking everyone to read the same story they did the first time around, only different. So it's a kind of winking entreaty. It's saying to readers, many of whom are understandably wary of doing it over, zeroing out the characters to starting positions, and starting from the beginning with 11-year-olds all over again. It's going: "hey. That was fun, right? Why not do it again?"

#thank you so much for the compliment -- honestly it's terribly kind #i hope your spouse likes it. for their own sake also because by god that is so much assigned reading #you're iconic for that tbh. all birthdays should come with a syllabus #oh! and ❄️ ⇢ what’s your dream theme/plot for a fic #and who would write it best?#tbh i've wanted someone to write a really good pacific rim AU for years and years #and it has always fallen juuuuust low enough on my writing pile for me to never get around to it #like it's always the thing i want to write 3rd most and i only let myself have 2 projects at a time #not sure who would write that best - I think anyone who loves and Gets the movies #the premise of which is 'what if you and your soulmate could pilot a 50-foot mech by having mindsex so good it killed godzilla?'#and if you don't want to stand up and cheer just thinking about that i don't know what to tell you. perhaps you have never seen a movie #also like it's about love and trust and trauma and healing. AND killing really giant monsters #and it takes itself JUST seriously enough to nail all of that without getting mopey or goofy #movie of all time. someday i will kiss guillermo del toro on the lips #in my (delusional) world his oscar win was actually a belated award for pacific rim.

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sidewalk-scrawls · 6 months

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Has anyone written a crew-centric fic where Stede and Ed are framed as antagonists? Ideally, mid/post season 2, with Izzy still alive? (This would also fit nicely with the crew faking Izzy's death to get him away from Ed.)

#tbh i think this could work while leaving canon virtually unchanged #i knowww i should just write my own fic but i don't feel like it lol #fic ideas #ofmd #izzy hands

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silverskye13 · 2 months

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hi can i just say that while I haven't been there to read your HK fanfiction, seeing you update nailmaster's folly after so long makes me... hopeful? In the 'I also have wips I haven't touched in years but there might still be space for them one day if I get the gumption' sort of way? so, while I'm not really going to be reading it as I know nothing about HK: thanks for updating nailmaster's folly, so cool to see it.

Hey you're very welcome! I'm very stoked it's giving you hope for your future projects. That's a hope you deserve to have.

Honestly, one of the most important things about art that I wish everyone would, at some point, absorb into their creative process, is that everything is allowed to rest. Sometimes the only thing that will "fix" a problem piece is time and distance, and that time and distance is allowed to be long. You're allowed to drop something for 4 years and randomly decide it's worth your time again, and you should be able to have that process without guilt or judgement.

Not to get on the "internet culture is evil" soapbox, but, the idea of the "grind", that every project must be done at once, from start to finish, in a logical order that others can consume and follow from point A to point Z, is untenable for individual creators, especially creators that are doing it just for fun. You aren't a machine. You aren't a writing board churning out a podcast, movie, tv series, comic book set, etc. You're a person finding joy in making art about something you love. The process can be messy. It can make no sense. It can involve long breaks, or deciding you're done with something entirely. Without guilt or malice, you are allowed to wash your hands of something and then decide to get them dirty with it again when you can stand the texture.

I understand there's sadness in thinking you can't finish something, in not knowing how to fix it immediately, or not being able to conjure the motivation to put to physicality something that makes so much sense in your head. Be disappointed, and grieve it, if you must. But never think it was time wasted. No one has ever walked out of their house in the morning without, at some point or another, looking at the world to see what was there. You're allowed to start a project, walk down the road with it, and realize you'd rather look around.

You can always come back.

#answering asks #anonymous #sorry this is a bit of a rant #but i dunno. its important to me.#i used to feel so much guilt over unfinished stories #tbh nailmaster's folly has been the one fic thats humbled me the most #the amount of times ive put it down and come back #the overall life lesson i learned of trying to write something Big and Interesting while i was depressed and shouldnt be powering through #learning to be a one man fan of something no one else likes [NF never got a lot of comments. i think the most on a chapter is 3]#learning how to self motivate just because you like your own ideas #and learning that you can love something and hate something and still walk away from jy #i dunno. everyone should have one problem project they come back to worry at like an old scar in an inconvenient place #it teaches you its okay to be uncomfortable. youll live.

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wild-flowerhoney · 3 months

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percico fics masterlist

FINISHED WORKS

the first time that you kissed me (i drank dry the river lethe) - three chapters, rated gen, son of neptune au where percy develops feelings for nico in camp jupiter, angst with a happy ending.

only the sun - two chapters, rated gen, post-canon where nico reveals that he saw them question his loyalty from the jar, emotional hurt/comfort with hopeful ending.

when the sea rises to meet us (nothing left for you and i to do) - two chapters, rated gen, soulmates au where nico shouldn't be percy's soulmate but definitely is, angst, hopeful ending (possible series/more chapters in the future).

what love means series - five one-shots for the 12 days of percico/nicercy christmas. all rated gen/teen, fluff and slight angst.

i'd be home with you - one-shot, rated teen, attempt at humor, fluffy proposal fic.

on the mend - seven chapters, rated teen, follows married percico as they go through a rough spot, angst with a happy ending.

WIPS

heaven is not fit to house a love (like you and i) - one chapter, rated mature, post-canon, au where nico left after gaea and ends up at percy's after six years, angst, domestic fluff, eventual happy ending.

in the dark of sleep - four chapters, rated explicit, russian doll au, time loops, temporary character death, post-canon percy and nico keep dying and reliving percy's 21st birthday.

devotee - three chapters, rated explicit, post-canon percy and nico as friends with benefits, pining, slight angst, past emotional cheating (light and not on each other).

all of these, except 'in the dark of sleep', are marked complete because they have satisfactory endings even as they are now.

COMING SOON (HOPEFULLY)

mythomagic nerds au - percy and nico meet in the lotus casino, mix of show and book, inspired by @g0thnico's post.

let there be damage (in that kind of love) - the au nobody wants, percy and nico cheat on their significant others together, messiest fic i've ever written.

hunger games au - self-explanatory, really.

shrek au - am i really serious about this one? i've got no idea myself.

#percico #percico fics #i had to make this bc i got comments like “you should write more percico!”#and that's all i write tbh so #pinned #pjo hoo toa

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