#mortals au

[plasma-studios]

princes in a pauper grave (ao3: x)

Two Princes, vying for the throne. There's always been a rivalry between them, really; Nightmare with his words and books, and Error with his sword. It should come to no surprise that they've committed to a fight to the death for the crown.

But they are not just Princes. They are brothers too.

OR: Prince!Nightmare and Prince!Error run away, rather than duel each other. Word count: 3.8k

cw/tw: major character death, minor character death, war as a plot device, implied revolution/coup, kingdom setting, mention of stillbirth

Inspired by My sworn enemy, brother mine by sircantus

“I don't want to die.” Nightmare couldn’t say anything after that. Error stared at him. He saw his reflection in his eyes. ----- Prince Error was conceived on an autumn night. It would be one of the colder autumns, with the winter chill beginning long before its season. Yet the news of a Prince-to be brought new warmth and life into the Palace grounds like its own spring. But he was born, and he was strange. Not so strange as to have mysteriously disappeared after birth or apparently passed on in a miscarriage, but strange enough that it was noticed.

He was born with strange, mismatched eyes, but not so strange that it was unheard of. His voice was strange, so nearly unintelligible, but not quite. He did not do well with touch. He was often hostile. 

For the mistake of his nature, he was named Error. But his name also served as a reminder that he could be corrected, that he was not a lost cause.

He was not what a good Prince should be. But he was the only Prince, and that was its own blessing for many Kingdoms and Empires had fallen to the simple issue of succession conflict. He was not a good Prince, but he was a decent one, and as the years went on he learnt to channel his aggression into combat.

He excelled at combat. He was better than the sons of Generals.

Then the Queen conceived again. This time it was a long labour, and soon they discovered why: the Queen had bourn twins. Or should’ve, for one of them was still-born. Just one twin remained, and he was named Nightmare for the agony that was his birth and the pain of the tragedy that it was.

This wouldn’t have been an issue had Nightmare not been simply exceptional. As he grew older, it grew apparent. He was— almost, everything a good Prince should be. The opposite of his older brother. He had weaknesses, yes: he couldn’t wield a sword for his life and a shield even less. But he was good with words. He was polite, possibly diplomatic in the right circumstance. He was observant, clever. He would be a good ruler. 

But he was not the eldest. Error was older than him by years, not even months, and for as long as he remained alive he would be the one to take the throne once he came of age. Nightmare could challenge him, but he would need to wait years to come of age too, and by then the Kingdom’s decision might well be made and set on Error.

Nightmare was not a fool. If he wanted to be King, he would need public approval too. He had half of it now: the crowds did speak of his wit, his intellect. But they also spoke of his brother’s fight, his strength. Some canary in the crowd sings. Or pleads. Or begs. There will be war soon, they whisper. War is coming. War is coming. 

Nightmare knew this, of course. He had watched his father sign the declaration through a crack in the door. It should be a bad thing. It would prioritize Error’s strengths. He knew it to be a bad thing. He could feel it from the sickening squeeze in his stomach and thickening saliva in his throat. He did not know why, however, he snuck out of his room and quietly tiptoed to Error’s. He did not know why he waited there. He did not know why he quietly whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

Silence. That he could understand.

But he did not understand why the door opened a crack, Error’s yellow pupil looking through the gap; “What do you want, Nightmare?” He had always been good with words. So why did they fail him this time? Error’s yellow pupil seemed luminous in the empty hallway. Then, quickly—

“Quiet.” And the door opened just enough for him to enter. Past him, Error’s eyes flickered back to the hallway. It was thankfully still empty, so the door closed without a sound.

Error’s room was dark. Nightmare’s vision took some time to adjust; he was used to the candlelight of which he wrote by at night or even the dim moonlight spilling through the window when his candles burnt out. There was no candle lit in Error’s room.

“What do you want?” The voice was harsh, but it was still a question. Nightmare didn’t know how to answer. What did he want? “There’s a war coming.” It slipped out like water through a crack. “Dad signed on it. It’s coming.” Error looked at his younger brother. There was a pause. “I know.”

Something stuck in Nightmare’s throat. “Oh.”

Then, quite strangely, Nightmare’s eyes moved off to the side. Away from Error. They landed on racks of daggers, stands for swords, armour—

Nightmare, suddenly, felt the threat of danger lodged in his throat blocking his voice from reaching his teeth. Error watched him, silent. “He talked to the Generals before. That’s why I know.” And he looked at him strangely, as if saying how do you know? and Nightmare could say nothing in his defense. Had he thought his dad’s decision to be on a whim? Surely not.

“Error.” “What, Nightmare?” Nightmare didn’t know what.

“I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Then he turned and stepped to the door. Quietly, “Don’t get caught.” The door opened. The I won’t stuck in Nightmare’s throat. Then he was gone. 

Error’s gaze was on that door for a long time. Then he looked away and went back to sleep. ----- Error was waiting. 

The knock came past midnight, and he had been awake waiting.

He got to the door and opened it. He hadn’t locked it tonight. His brother was on the other side. “Error,” He said softly. “Error.”

“Night.” Error did not beckon him in, but he might as well have.

That was the day the King died. Less than a month after the announcement of war. That would be the last night Error would be sleeping in the furnished rooms of the Palace, for without the King to lead them, the armies needed the next best thing. His son. 

Especially one as excellent in warfare as Error.

By the day after tomorrow, Nightmare would have no family left at home. But that night, Error held him, and those arms felt warmer than the hearth. ----- But it could not last. ----- Nightmare’s oldest memory was being held. Maybe it was memories, not memory. In all of them, in it , the haze of delayed realisation, of transition between dinners and luncheons, his head was buried in someone’s chest. Sometimes he would be crying, but not always. The day the Queen died, he had crawled into Error’s bed and wept. That was a long time ago. Long before Error was sent to the borders for the war. Even longer from before he snuck to Error’s room to tell him about the upcoming war. He had been, what? Four years old? Five? Error had been so much older. ----- The days before the King’s death, the brothers had taken to eating meals together. Error had a sweet tooth. Such a sweet tooth. Nightmare wanted to gag everytime he smelled Error’s sweetened, too-sugared tea. Error, in response, said Nightmare was a food masochist. Why insist on spices if you can’t handle them? Perhaps you should start bringing a goblet of milk to each meal.

It was a farce of familial conversation. But it still felt like family.

“I’m sure one of us will be dead by adulthood,” Error had remarked one day over lobster bisque. There was no lie in it. It was a possibility. The same garish, dry humour Error delighted in, his substitute for hostile remarks. Nightmare did not forget. ----- Nightmare filled the role of ruler well. He had not come of age yet, so he was ruling in everything but name. His politeness had indeed developed into diplomacy, though using it against his own advisors would’ve been unseemly if he hadn’t done it well. He was a good Regent, a good to be-ruler, a good Prince. He was incredibly favoured by public approval, and less than half of it was pity for his orphanhood.

It was quietly known that he would be the next King. It was mere days to his turning of age. 

In the years of his, much of the public forgot about his brother. When they spoke of the war, it was with hushed cursing and distressed worrying. Of if they would need to ration food soon, of if they needed to worry about their livelihoods. It was not about the Prince-turned-General. 

At least, not till Error returned with the war won. ----- Two Princes, both of age, with different claims to the throne. A rivalry long forgotten by the public thrown back into public debate and gossip. The older Prince, heir by birthright, yet strange. Undiplomatic, blunt; strange eyes, strange voice. A good warrior, though; but a King is not a warrior first.

Then the younger Prince. Younger by years, yet more intelligent. Clear voice, good face, and oh so good with words. A good ruler, too, as one could see from his unofficial reign. Yet he wasn’t the oldest, and the sword was his weakness. 

(And, some whispered, the older Prince did win the war. Wasn’t that proof of his ability?) After all, they were a weakened Kingdom recovering from war. There was always the chance of the neighbouring Kingdoms taking it as an opportunity and launching war once more. It was possible.

In such a scenario Error was most definitely the better choice. A King could be a warrior, but only a warrior could win wars.

But nonetheless it should’ve been Error crowned once he returned from the front lines. Shouldn’t it? He was older after all.

The Princes had different claims to the throne, but each could only have been made King upon the previous ruler’s decision. Claims equal in legitimacy, because the previous King never declared either one of them heir before his untimely death.

So, what did the rules dictate?

It was a primitive tradition, from primitive times so long ago. 

In the event there was no ruler to appoint the heir apparent, they would have to battle it out for the throne. True battle, with blood and weapons and everything that ever came of them.

And at this, how the people talked. It distracted them— focusing on the conflicts of the elite, and perhaps the heat of conflict would distract them from the coldness in their homes; winter was coming.

Both brothers were of age, and a date was set for the battle. ----- Error had forgotten Nightmare’s face, but it was so easy to remember when he saw him again. He hadn’t changed at all.

Error happened to see Nightmare on his second night back. Happened to meet in the hallways, eyes stuck to each other like moths to flame. As if nothing had changed and everything had in those years apart. Because really, hadn’t the change been when Error returned? Nightmare, because he was better with his words, spoke first.

“I don’t want to die.” Nightmare couldn’t say anything after that. Error looked at him. He saw his reflection in his eyes.

Error said nothing and turned to walk away. Nightmare did not follow him. ----- “I don’t want to die.”

Just because Error didn’t want the throne did not mean he wanted to die. Nobody wanted that. Nightmare certainly didn’t, so why handicap himself? Error was not a noble person. Nightmare would make a better King. Error knew it to be true.

But tradition had put a damper on Nightmare’s chances of survival and increased his. Nightmare would not make a good King if he was never crowned, and he could not be crowned if he was already dead.

Tradition, tradition. He silently thought it primitive, to have them fight to the death for a measly reward that should’ve been their birthright anyway. Was the crown worth the blood? The betrayal? There should have been no betrayal. They should’ve never been family. Nothing to betray but the shared blood in their veins that meant nothing now.

He did not want to kill Nightmare, but he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want the throne either.

He would much rather be— forgotten. Be left alone. Be left in peace. But he was born as a Prince.

Error knew if it came to it, he would have to kill Nightmare. ----- They did not continue sharing meals. Nor sharing company. ----- Nightmare began training two weeks before the day. Since the day he got back, Error never picked up a sword. ----- Error missed Nightmare more than he could say. No one else would indulge his dry humour. All the soldiers that got the humour (they were always the good soldiers) had died in the war. The homesickness that should’ve come for him during the war instead came to him now, in the form of lonely dinners. ----- Nightmare did not let Error in when he found him outside his door. The anger-grief-pain had long smoothed out at the edges, so he didn’t say anything. He merely waited. “Do you know how the King died?” Error spoke quietly. The words dug into Nightmare, searching for anything to hook on but they were nothing to him. He still said nothing. “He died of his allergies.” There was a hint of sardonicism in his words. “Nut allergy, if you would believe that.”

Nightmare looked at Error. Something in Error smoothed over. Something in Error broke. Something in Error shifted.

“Can I come in?” If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said his voice sounded hoarse.

Nightmare didn’t know how his dad died. Now that he thought about it, it was really strange. Why had none of his advisors mentioned it to him, if only as a reminder to be cautious? Even if he’d blocked out his father’s death, why would they have allowed it? “Go away.” The words came before he realised they were in his throat.

Error blinked. Then, he smiled slowly. A slow, sad smile. “Nightmare.” “Error,” He said dryly. 

Something in Error broke. Something in Error broke. Something in Error broke. “Night,” He said again. Pleadingly, almost. “Let's pretend? Till the sun rises?” “Why haven’t you been training?” The question slipped out before he could clack his teeth shut. “Are you that sure? That confident that you’ll kill me and win?”

Error looked at him strangely. “I don’t want to kill you, Nightmare,” He said honestly. “But you will.” It should’ve been an accusation. It was a truth.

“On the day, yes,” He said— softly? Quietly? Painfully? Regretfully? On the day. There would only ever be one day, and that was that. But it would come to pass soon. There was a terrible joy at that. Perhaps it was not joy at all. ----- Nightmare made mistakes in his training. So many mistakes. Approaching his death felt like a slow death in itself. He trained, still; as if preparing an act. As if preparing for the spectacle that that day would become.

He knew the people, in all their whispers and rumours, were growing unruly. Growing frustrated. 

He wondered if it was a coincidence the King died so soon after declaring war. He wondered how many of his advisors he could actually trust. He was not stupid. Undoubtedly the neighbouring kingdoms had a hand in stirring dissent in theirs. Was he really a good ruler? Or was he just a good pawn?

But, in his despondency, he found he could not muster the ability to care. ----- Error did not want to kill Nightmare.

But now, Error did not think he could kill Nightmare.

Not even as Nightmare snuck into his room, quiet but to Error far too loud to go unnoticed. And he has a knife in hand. 

“Hello, brother.”

The words stayed in the air for a long, long time. Nightmare did not flinch. He held the knife like it was a flower. 

“Error,” He said softly. Quietly. Painfully. “Error, I need to tell you something.”

“Well,” Error said slowly, as if gauging the risk. “Have you come to kill me?”

Nightmare dropped the knife. He stared at it as it fell. He stared at the knife against the floor before dragging his eyes back to his brother.

“No. I need to tell you something. I— It’s okay, if you kill me.” The words came far too easy, slipping through like breath. “I just don’t want to die in the duel. I don’t want to die being watched by, what? Tens? Hundreds? I want to die alone, or if I can’t, die with you.”

Error let out a breath.

“Nightmare."

“It’s the truth,” He retorted. “I want out of this. I want out. I don’t care anymore. This Kingdom is going down and I’m ready to jump ship and drown. Kill me and fake my suicide.”

Error’s fingers tightened into a half-fist, then he let out a soft chuckle. A painful chuckle. An angry chuckle.

“You’re an idiot. Everyone will suspect me. A knife? Why don’t we use the sword I used in the war? Might as well not waste their time,” he spat, the words escaping through clenched teeth. Childhood hostility returning; no, it had never really left. “Error, please.” 

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Error, kill me.”

"Fuck off.”

“Error—”

“For fucks sake, if you’re too scared to fight then run away!” Error hissed. A silence.

“What?” Nightmare was actually bewildered. Error was actually pissed. “For fucks sake, just go! Sure they’ll blame me, but what can they do? If you don’t want to fight, then leave!” Nightmare’s mouth was open. “I can do that?”

“Yes?!”

“But I wouldn’t know where to go. I don’t know anything beyond the walls of this Palace. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know anyone. And—” His face stiffened. “There’s a coup coming.”

Error stiffened. “What?”

“There’s a coup coming and the King’ll be dead in less than a year anyway. I— I thought you knew.”

Suddenly they were back in Nightmare’s room years and years ago when he’d tried to warn Error of the war. 

Suddenly they were brothers again.

“Error.” His voice quivered like he was a child again. “What will we do?”

Error’s biting laughter (oh so bitter) cut through the air. “Either way, we’re fucked.”

“We could run away,” Nightmare murmured. “Or— abdicate?”

“We’ll be killed anyway. The people,” He paused. “ Our people, they are angry. I didn’t think there would be enough people high up to constitute a coup, but our people? They want revenge. If we abdicate the throne, there will always be eyes on us. We’ll still be a threat, just powerless. We’ll die the same way father did.”

Nightmare knew, then. Their father did not die of illness. He had been assassinated. It was a stupid thing. Obvious. Nut allergy that got him in the end? It was so— stupid. “So, Nightmare.” Error had a strange look in his eyes. “What do you want?” Nightmare thought, and thought.

He remembers, then. A long, long, long time ago, they had snuck bites out of their mother’s pastry. It had been a fun game then, seeing how much they could eat without her noticing. The night had ended in feverish heat and bitter medicine. 

They had almost died that night, the two of them. It was a bitter night. He had not wanted to remember it, but he remembered all the same now. The pastry had been made with nuts. Just like the birthright of a claim to the throne, they had inherited the deadly allergy from their father. There, his answer. “To be free,” He said, oh so softly. “Even if just for a time before they catch us.”

“Maybe they won’t catch us,” Error said carefully. “If we plan.” He was contradicting his own words from earlier. Yet he was so sure in it.

Nightmare guessed what he was thinking. Perhaps he was right, perhaps not. And yet, he did not care. ----- There would be no duel, because the Princes would go missing the night before.

They would not realise till the morning of. And the brothers would have been long gone. ----- There were stalls along the narrow, winding streets. Nightmare nearly tripped over his feet to make it to one that sold paintings; his gaze was fixed on one in particular, a painting of a yellow bird on a branch of the Hesperides Tree. The vendor noticed him and chuckled. “Can I help you?” Nightmare flinched and looked up. “Uh— um, no, it’s fine. I’m just— looking.” “Took a liking to that one?” He prompted. He was not that much older than Nightmare, really; perhaps the same age as Error, who was cautiously watching a few steps back. “It was one of my favourites to paint, you know. All that fancy imagery, you know?”

“Oh, you— painted this?” Nightmare blinked, surprised.

“Mhm! You can see my name in the corner,” He nudged in its direction. “But in case you can’t make out my handwriting, it says Ink. ”

“Ah, I see it. Fitting name.” Nightmare let out a small laugh. It was so small, yet it felt— real.

Error stepped in and started to pull him away from the stall.

“Ah, goodbye then, friend!” Even as they left, Error did not glance back at Ink. “People are looking, ” He whispered. Nightmare did not have to nod, they both knew it. They both noticed it. The lingering gazes, the whispers, the second glances; they know they were going to be recognised soon. That they didn’t have much time left.

They still had one stall left to patronize, though. They had barely brought any gold with them; just over enough to purchase a few pastries. ----- It’s a local dessert, made of nuts. ----- Nightmare realises he’s crying. 

Error holds him to his chest the way he did when they were kids. “Quickly now,” Error whispered, softly, as if he was holding a dead thing. Soon he would be.

What if he’s lying? What if he doesn’t eat it too ? It was the way Nightmare was taught, to suspect everyone and everything, his only family left most of all. 

He, however, found that he did not care. Let Error take the throne, then. He was aware, though. Both of them. The next King would die not too long after. The people wanted blood for the blood spilled. An exchange. A justice.

Tomorrow or in many tomorrows, the townsfolk would find two bodies under the bridge, already decaying. If they were lucky, they would be dragged out, or perhaps even carried, to their very own pauper’s grave.

Perhaps that artist, Ink, was it? Would be the one to bury them.

If they were not lucky, they wouldn’t be buried at all and perhaps found by the King’s Guard. But even when the Monarchy fell, even when revolution was brought to the Palace doorstep, there would be nothing that could be done to the two brothers. For they would be long dead.

[x-bilx-x]

My Wind archer deisng for my au

he is albino

[minzart]

Going togheter with this

[nouveaullo]

[little-pondhead]

DP x DC Prompt

…

There are no more heroes.

Well, okay. Rewind a bit.

Danny has been doing the hero thing for a while now. He’s had a big reveal; everyone has accepted him (including his parents), the GIW disbanded, the Anti-Ecto acts repealed, and generally, everything is going great. Some of the A-Listers are even training as junior ghost hunters to help give him a break from his rogues! (Being Ghost King makes things hectic sometimes, and he just needs the extra help. Sue him!)

The point is, literally nothing is wrong with Danny Phantom’s afterlife.

And then Valerie Gray, the Red Huntress, disappears in front of his eyes.

Danny is baffled! She’s just…gone! Valerie just popped out of existence, like she was never there. But no matter how hard he searches in the Ghost Zone, he can’t find her soul anywhere. His core isn't broken in grief. So she’s not dead. Which is good. So then, where is she?

Some of the others come forward with ideas on how to find her. A few ghosts volunteer to go out into the mortal realm, an area Danny had declared off-limits, to see if she was out there. Danny approves it. He rounds up some of the friendlier (i.e., discreet) ghosts and Amity Parkers and demolishes the outside travel ban.

So everyone spreads out, looking for their dear frenemy and teammate. But it becomes apparent very quickly that something is wrong with the rest of the world.

There are no more heroes.

Every single living superhero on the face of the Earth has just…vanished. Villains are running amok; the countries are in chaos! Some aliens are invading Earth, mythical deities are trying to take over, and society is crumbling to the ground. Everything is on the brink of collapse.

Well, Danny was still there. And so were his people. They were pretty spread out, so could they just…take up the mantles? He also knew where to find the souls of dead heroes in the Zone; surely they wouldn't mind coming out of retirement for a little bit, especially if they couldn't die again. Oh! And that skeleton army leftover from Pariah Dark's reign might be useful in repelling those invading forces.

Honestly, there were more than enough hands to go around! And with the heroes gone, Danny didn't mind letting everyone out for a little break, as long as they followed his rules. They wouldn't stop the search for the other heroes, but hopefully, when they found them, the heroes wouldn't mind Danny's intervention too much. :)

In other words:

Someone fucks up, and all of Earth's living heroes are either wished out of existence or are whisked away to some far-off realm where Danny hasn't checked yet. In the attempt to figure out what's going on, Danny lets the dead run amok over the Earth as they search for clues. The skeleton army repels the invading armies, the souls of dead heroes deal with the world leaders, and his rogues and other Amity Parkers set up shop in place of famous heroes, trying to get the cities under control again.

Basically, they just do their best to keep everything from imploding until the Justice League and others are back.

(And why is it that Danny hasn't disappeared? Well, whatever caused everyone to go poof! only affected living heroes. Anyone heroes that were dead in the first place, or even just half-dead, stayed behind.)

[sayoneee]

☆ I WANNA BE YOUR MAN

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” (1.7k)

contains: loser older brother luke castellan x fem! reader. mortal au. pt 2 of parent trap but can be read standalone ish. guest appearances! rock / metal music references.

kashaf’s note: i think i can call myself a melomaniac now

LUKE CASTELLAN HAS always occupied that in-between space, the no-man’s-land between something and nothing — his indecipherable gaze as his cold, black, and blued knuckles grazed your cheek when he tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear swims around your mind endlessly. despite how each thought, each expression, each breath is as familiar to you as your own, you have never quite known where you stand with him, regardless of how quickly he seemed to inhabit a piece of your soul.

the familiar weight of the mixtape that luke made you feels unusually burdensome in your hands, mirroring the heft of the songs on it that you have painstakingly committed to memory, each sleepless night’s offerings of tossing and turning becoming a reoccurring ritual. 

you had popped the tape in your walkman immediately after luke had handed it to you, incognizant of the way his eyes softened as you concentrated on the music, trying to identify the first song. 

“this is that band you like — l.a. guns, right?”

“you’re a regular sherlock,” luke had said, smiling and sarcastic, twisting his silver rings.

“shut up, no i know this song,” you say, tilting your head and snapping your fingers. “its — um — i wanna be yours? nono, don’t make that face at me, asshole, hold on… i wanna be your man?”

hues of pink crept up his cheeks, and you basked in the warmth of his answering crooked grin, the feeling wrapping around you like the caress of a summer night. 

you uselessly stirred the spoon in your now stone-cold cup of chai, leaning across the kitchen table with your head propped up in your other hand. the phone taunts you from its corner on the counter, sitting just by the clear jar of blue cookies, its black hue a beacon among the sea of greens (the cabinets, the tiles — you liked to tell sally that she should try her hand at interior design one of these days) — as of late, the jacksons’ kitchen has become somewhat of a refuge for you. 

you set a steaming china cup down in front of him, listening to the sounds of percy, annabeth, and grover in the living room, pulling out the chair in front of him with a slight creak on the slightly worn wooden floors, and watching him as he taps his fingers along to bob marley’s soft crooning, “little darlin’, stir it up”, lost in his own world.  

“luke,” you say, breaking him out of his revelry.

luke sits up straight, meeting your amused gaze, “yeah?” he asks, reaching for his chai, and mumbling a quiet thanks as he sips it.

“you look kinda stupid when you think,” you say, watching him blink before taking the bait, and hiding your smile of satisfaction behind your cup.

“y’know, this is why you have a black hole for a heart,” he says, grinning crookedly, filling you with an indescribable longing to reach out and trace his grin. 

“what?” you laugh, “what does that even mean?”

“just that you’re mean,” luke says, and the afternoon sun chooses that specific moment to encompass him in its glow, like a kiss from apollo. “and that you’re emo.”

“you literally say this every time, oh my god, i’m not mean or emo.”

“because i’m literally right?”

“you like him,” annabeth says, sympathetically, standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her braids resting across her shoulders, glancing from your untouched cup to your face, an expression of pity gracing her features. her presence caught you so off guard that you don’t even question where percy ran off to, who was usually attached to annabeth like a conjoined twin. 

“i know,” you say, shivering slightly, the revelation feeling strangely empty, although you suppose the same part of your soul that recognized him had always known, a small inkling reappearing with every argument, and every nudge. 

“he likes you,” annabeth adds matter-of-factly, interrupting your stream of consciousness. 

“i know,” you repeat, picking at the lint on your sweater, and while this revelation is supposed to be shocking, it is also hollow, as you suppose your soul also knew this with every hushed conversation in the dead of night, and the slips of silence that only spoke volumes around him.

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” she turned and stalked back toward the living room.

you sat still for a minute or so, before sighing and putting luke’s mixtape (even in your misery, he is somehow always there) in your walkman, putting your headphones on as axl rose trilled, ‘i said, baby you been lookin' real good’ in his voice that took a while to get used to — something luke gave you a heads up on.

you sighed, conceding to annabeth’s attempts to rewrite whatever fate had pushed the two of you apart, from the hours-long phone calls that dwindled into short, clipped conversations, you can’t necessarily blame annabeth for trying to fashion a phoenix from the ashes of your friendship. 

you stood up, grabbed your jacket off the back of the chair you were sitting upon, and walked into the living room, pausing for a few minutes to watch the scooby doo episode on the screen along with percy, grover, and annabeth, who were currently sprawled across the softly carpeted floor, arguing over monopoly.

“you’re literally cheating,” percy was saying.

“i’m the banker, i’m supposed to be innocent,” annabeth argued back.

“percy, i saw you steal a couple dollars behind annabeth’s back,” grover added, rolling the dice.

“guys,” you said, interrupting their three-way argument, “put on your jackets and shoes, we’re going to the fair in five minutes.”

you ignored the way the troublesome trio exchanged glances, walking through the hallway covered in framed photos of percy and sally, going to wait by the door for them.

“so,” percy says, all-too-innocently, “why the sudden change of plans?” once the four of you are a couple of blocks away from his apartment.

“no reason, just wanted to see what was so hot about the fair,” you say, digging your hands in the pockets of your jacket. once more, you ignore the glances the trio exchange. 

“so it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain curly-haired individual that we’re currently seeing less and less of?”

you keep walking, trying to feign ignorance, although the question was so pointed even you were concerned with percy’s audacity, “what’re you talking about?”

“oh, nothing,” percy smiles. “just the way —”

“— the two of you —”

“— were inseparable —”

“— for a disgustingly long time —”

“— and now you’re not —”

“— but we’re going to the fair because —”

“— his band is playing —”

“— and you’re going to try and fix —”

��— your troubles in paradise.”

you blinked slowly, as the three of them did jazz hands, matching shit-eating grins on all of their faces, “how long did it take for you guys to rehearse that?”

“a week, give or take,” grover says, and annabeth shoots him a glare.

“not the point, the point is, we support you.”

“gee, thanks, all i really needed was the support of three twelve-year-olds.”

“three twelve-year-olds that know you’re stupidly in love with luke castellan,” percy points out.

“okay, y’know what…” you trail off, frowning.

annabeth nudged percy, “not the point here, again.”

“fine, fine, fine,” you huff, as the four of you approach the brightly illuminated fair, looking for the ticket-selling booth, “i’ll buy you guys tickets so you can go hang out on the rides and i’ll go to the concert.”

the three of them nodded happily, making a beeline for the cotton candy stand a few feet away. you shook your head before pushing through the bustling crowd to look for the concert stage. when you finally do find it, after three excuse me’s and four sorry’s, the concert is already in full swing, with what looks like a mini moshpit already forming somewhere near the center.

once you’ve pushed your way to the absolute front, the darkening night sky serving as a backdrop, the harsh lights illuminate all five individuals on the stage, with a gorgeous girl with shaggily-cut hair and a raspy voice singing as lead (thalia? you think you remember luke telling you on the phone late at night once). however, your gaze almost immediately fixed on luke, who was playing a riff on his electric guitar, looking as hot as ever, his crooked grin on full display.

the band is covering l.a. guns’ ‘i wanna be your man’ at the moment, and you’re suddenly very grateful to annabeth for her unsubtle nudges, because you would’ve missed out on this sight of luke castellan, the view of his muscled arms bulging out of his band tee is permanently seared into your memory.

you’re almost sad when the show is over though, finally realizing why luke liked concerts so much, from the crowd surfing to the drumstick tricks during solos (beckendorf, you think the drummer’s name was — luke had mentioned him before) to the lead’s insane vocals, to the girl with long curly hair that stood next to you for most of the concert (probably the band’s most enthusiastic fan), you savored every minute of it. however, you’re glad for the chance to corner luke afterwards, climbing onto the stage as the crowd begins to disperse in waves, and realizing the curly-haired girl was already among the band members packing up their instruments, helping the curly-haired bassist pack his things. 

luke barely looks up at your sudden arrival. “what’re you doing here?” he asks, packing away his guitar.

“i’m here to see you,” you say, trying to drive the hint home.

“i told you that you didn’t have to come see the band if you were busy,” luke says, uncomprehendingly, making eye-contact with you. 

“i like you,” you say insistently.

“c’mon, let’s not kid ourselves right now, you said we’re friends so you don’t have to try to make me feel better,” luke says, shrugging and looking away from your face, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i listen to your dumb mixtape every night, luke castellan. does a person who’s not into you do that?”

there is something so raw about the way he looks right now, with his expression stilling as his cheeks are colored in swathes of red. 

smiling at his dumbstruck expression, you surged forward to kiss him, ignoring all the wolf whistles and “get some, castellan” enveloping the two of you, tangling your fingers into his hair, his hands coming to rest upon your hips.

© sayoneee on tumblr. do not repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

[hwangbastard69]

Railao coffee shop AU

[University student Kung Lao decides to take up Johnny's suggestion of the hole-in-the-wall cafe near campus— there he meets the beauty incarnate server, Raiden]

Sketch under

I loved it so much that I actually drew a background for them 🤯🤯

[sinimake]

MK social media AU

I really love @novicedraws 's white haired Raiden hc, it's canon to me

Next >>

[izu]

keepin this au going i guess.......................

[bleeding-seraphic]

So, that white collar au huh

[novicedraws]

Random AU time, instead of being raised on earth realm and trained by the monks. Raiden is Li Mei's second in command and is naturally gifted with the powers of lighting/thunder.

[mogusalt]

on the red carpet ☆

BASED ON THIS AU IDEA I HAD!!

join an mk server ? :3

[spilycoris]

those who would question—

—would be strung.

introducing my little au called ‘mirth and mortality’ where the lamb is narinder's court jester. there is nothing else going on. ...totally.

bonus: this fan art made by the lovely @7-ferrets-in-a-coat . thank very much for encouraging the making of the jester au. and helping with kallamar. yeesh.

[9ffairs]

[thisonehere]

Kharacters reacting to you opening your eyes after they assumed you died

C/w: Angst, mentions of blood and physical assault, afab reader

Kitana

The battle had finally met its end, Kitana was able to push back the army of Shao to the point of retreat. A smile spread across her face at this victory... but this smile soon faded as she noticed something: she didn't see you anywhere.

"Y/n!" She called, expecting to see among her ranks. But you weren't there.

Kitana's heart began to race as she started to look this way and that for you, but you weren't anywhere to be seen.

With a hard swallow, she turned and started to search among the bodies of the dead soldiers.

She paused and rolled over the dead bodies, hoping that you weren't one of them.

Then she saw it, she saw your mangled body lying broken in the mass of other bodies.

During the battle, you found General Shao, or he had found you, either way, it left you in this condition...and he.... he...did this to you

"No..." Kitana bellowed as she went to her knees beside you.

Kitana has seen a lot of things, done a lot of things, but seeing your brutalized body...it-it just made her sick to her stomach.

She bowed her head and took your hand as she began to make a silent prayer for your soul. As she did, she began to blame her

You had initially wanted to stay in Sun Do, but she convinced you to come and fight. Now you're here, in this shape. If it wasn't for her, you'd be safe at home.

She thinks of the life you could have had if only you never came here. She even begins to question what your life would have been like if you never crossed paths with her.

Before she can finish her revere and her prayer, your eyes snap open.

Kitana lifted her head, and a slight gasp exited her mouth.

You attempt to move but only howl in pain at your injuries. Kitana's grip on your hand tightens "Stay still," she instructs, "We're going to find you help" She assures. This settles you down, her words are surprisingly calm to you.

Though your condition is severe, Kitana can't help but smile to herself at knowing you're alive. She wants to yell at you, scold you for being so reckless in going against Shao without her. But she cannot. She is just so overwhelmed with relief that you are okay.

Bi-Han

As grand-master of the Lin Kuei, Bi-Han had many duties to fulfill. But when evening finally fell and he had completed all his tasks, he had one thing that he was forward to: spending time with you. After the great betrayal that his brother and Tomas did to him, you stood by his side no matter what and for that he was truly grateful for.

He approached your room door and gently knocked it, hoping not to startle you. "Y/n, my beloved, may I come in?" he asked.

Bi-Han waited for a response, but none came. Just silence. Bi-Han was confused, normally you would have responded by now.

He knocked again, once again with no response.

Bi-Han couldn't lie, he was getting slightly concerned, almost afraid. This wasn't like you at all. Were you giving him the silent treatment? What did he do? Is there a way he could fix things?

His patience eventually wears thin and he kicks down the door. And there he sees you lying on the ground, in a pool of your own blood.

Bi-han felt his heart drop and his blood stop as he sees you. His eyes began to dart around the room and he saw the window open, by force by the looks of it. An assassin. Did his brother send them? It doesn't matter, not right now.

He rushes to your bleeding corporeal and picks you up. He doesn't know what to do, how long were you like this? He panics and lays you on the bed. He calls for a guard "Bring a medic, NOW!". With a nod they rush away.

For the next passing moments, all Bi-Han can do is stare at your body. He shakes his head as anger begins to build up within him.

He had so many plans and things he wanted to do with you. He wanted to place a ring on your finger, hold his first-born with you, hold you tight as you slept in his bed. He also knew you yourself had plans for the future, and now it is all gone. Something that will never be.

He sits on the bed and holds you tight in his arms. Your perfume fills his nostrils, a cruel mocking of what could have been.

He looks at you face, you look so beautiful and peaceful even in this state. He wanted to kiss it, but he realized that instead he will have to bury it.

You eyes splinter open all of a sudden.

Bi-Han lets out a sigh, he hadn't even noticed he was holding his breath.

You twist in pain, disoriented by what's happening. A sharp pain shoots through your body. "Don't move." He says, holding you tight. A surprisingly cool and warm sensation springs from his body into yours providing a slight comfort.

Bi-Han was relieved, he felt his heart slow down. He heard the guard and the medic coming this way and they would see him holding you. But he couldn't care less, all that mattered to him now was that you would be okay.

Raiden

Today's training at the Wu Shi Academy was nearly overwhelming, but Raiden couldn't but find it very rewarding. He was not excited for the next part of his day: seeing you.

He quickly gathered together as many flowers as he could find (he couldn't remember what you said your favourite was) and hardly made his way to your personal chambers.

He went to the door and raised his hand to knock. But he hesitated. Was now a good time? He didn't want to bother you. Did you even want to see him.

Finally finding the courage, he knocks lightly on the door. No response.

He knocked again, slightly harder. Once again there was no response. Raiden was starting to feel embarrassed, he turned to leave.

Raiden shook his head and turned back to the door. He was going to leave for Outworld soon, this could be one of the few times he could see you. He knocks on the door much harder this time.

The door slowly creaked open. Raiden then finally noticed that the door looked like it was kicked open, the lockset was knocked out of place.

Raiden felt his heart begin to race, he hesitantly entered your room and found it was a mess. It was filled with shattered glass on the floor, dents in the wall, and some splotches of blood here and there. It looks like a struggle has taken place.

Okay, now he was really concerned.

Raiden rushed in, "Y/n!" he called.

Turning the corner, he finds your body lying there on the floor close to your bedroom. You had a blood trail behind you, you were trying to crawl away. Either from your attacker or to get help. It didn't matter now though.

Raiden felt his heart stop, and he fell to his knees beside you. "By the Elder Gods, who did this to you?" he asked, his voice beginning to shake.

Who would want to do this to you, he thought, what monster would want to hurt such a warm, kind, smart, beautiful creature like you?

He felt his eyes burn, from both tears beginning to form as well as electricity beginning to crackle around his eyes. He didn't even have control over this, all he saw was red. He was usually a gentle person, but he felt something dark come over him here and now.

"I'll find them," He promised "I'll find them, I'll-I'll kill them!" His voice, though calm, had an air of intensity around. Seeing you like this brought the dark out of him that he tried so hard to suppress. But he could care less about it, not right now at least.

Without a warning, your eyes break open. Raiden felt the lightning in his eyes vanish. His anger subsided by surprise and relief.

You wheeze and twist in agony. You feel your broken lungs crunch as you try to speak to him, tell him everything.

Raiden shushes you as he gently takes your hand. "It's okay, Y/n, we'll figure this all out later. Now, we're going to help you."

His finger glimmered with a gentle electricity. he hadn't ever really tried to heal with his amulet before, but for now, for you, he was willing to try.

As he began to work on you, he shivered as he reflected on what happened to him. It felt like he had become a completely different person. A much darker person, a dark Raiden.

[whatarainyday]

thinking about college students bkdk 🥺