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Kyuutaro: The Unwilling Therapist

We need more fics of Kazuki forcing Kyuutaro to listen to his bi-panic about Rei by going to see him during business hours, and Kyuutaro is just forced to listen to him even as Kazuki scares customers away.

Kyuutaro: You know you can like both men and women, right?

Kazuki: Of course I know that. I’m not an idiot. But I only like women. Now, as I was saying, Rei’s tiny waist-

Kyuutaro: Someone kill me.

Starlight. Who do you see? Who do you smile for?

I hope it's me.

more Poco’s Udon World fanarts!

(please watch it)

Wilbur being from Utah…. Okay. I’m okay. I’m so okay.

L’manburg was for those who weren’t American. So if Wilbur was American all along,,, then L’manburg was never for him. It was for his friends, and it was never for him.

Wait.

“I want to believe that desert is where people start anew and figure out who they were supposed to be in this grand life of ours.” He dreamed of a grand, spacious desert that served as a blank slate where he could start over and become the person he’s meant to be.

And in the end, he’s standing in a large desert, laughing and screaming with unbridled joy about how he gets to go home, a place where he can start anew with a blank slate. And he gets the rest of his life to figure out the person he’s meant to be.

What the red means

How do you kill a God?

Aphrodite laughs, head tossed back with stars in her hair, ‘We are immortal. We are ageless. We will never die.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Hera sighs, ‘You rob them of love and loyalty. They will be alone and unhappy, and eternity will seem like a punishment, but it is not death.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Zeus declares, rather confidently, ‘You deny them their power. Poseidon nods his head in agreement. ‘They will be weak and defeated, perhaps even chopped up into pieces, but it is not death.’ 

How do you kill a God?

Apollo closes his eyes. ‘You strip them of their senses. Their eyes, and they cease to see. Their ears, and they are rendered silent. They will be in the dark, conscious and cut off for millennium, but it is not death.’

How do you kill a God?

Hades whispers, though still his voice carries, ‘With another God. An immortal for an immortal. Era for an Era. A celestial being to strip another’s soul. He pauses, the rest are silent. ‘A God for a God.’

L.H.Z // How do you kill a God?

Death

When Russia mentions death there is an imperceptible flinch in the room. He does it causally. Why wouldn’t he? He has died so many times.

           America’s hand still flutters up, aimlessly, as though to touch an old scar, but there are too many. He is still young, and he moves unconsciously. His is the age of bullets, explosions, and distant violence. He knows well the pain of a gunshot. That doesn’t mean anything anymore. He knows what it is to become nothing at the touch of a button; the feeling of fire before the force of scientific progress strips flesh from bone. You still come back from nothing, when you’re not human. He always came back.

           England knows these things. He knows fire more intimately. After what feels like an eternity it stops hurting. The powerful belief of his people drove him back. You can come back from ash. He never felt like a phoenix.

           France knows defeat when bringing blade against blade. The piercing is symbolic; his heart beating itself to shreds as though he could really die when he never does. He falls to his knees, not animated by blood or a heartbeat. You recover from mortal wounds. He still fights as though he can die because others can.

           Spain, God knows, has drowned more times than he can remember. It burns when the water fills his lungs. Salt water is worse. You can still get back to shore, even if it takes hours. He doesn’t need to breath.

           Germany, Italy, and Japan died in that grand war. They did not make their pact to lose. They could have died and never come back, the stakes they gambled. The stroke of a pen can cease the driving force that brings you back and back and back… They knew death dearly enough to dare to risk their lives.

           China is older than all of them. He knows death in nearly every form. He almost knows rebirth. He could laugh at most of the stories the others tell; that though does not cross his mind. They may all argue but there is one thing they understand.

           Russia has mentioned death. There was an imperceptible flinch in the room. All of them thought of it, briefly, in flashes and moments without words, but none dwell. Why would they? They have all died so many times.  

"You smoke?"

Tommy looked over at Schlatt. He was shaking a cigarette out of a pack and into his hand. Where he'd gotten it, Tommy didn't know. It was the afterlife; he didn't expect drugs to be in the afterlife.

"Fuckin'... no, I don't smoke," He huffed back, "What do you fuckin'..."

Schlatt shrugged, brought the cigarette to his lips, produced a lighter, and lit up. "Your loss."

Wilbur had warned Tommy that occasionally they'd fade in and out. The afterlife wasn't a concrete plane to be in, he'd said, so Tommy should prepare for him to pop in and out occasionally.

Tommy had thought he was ready. He was not.

He'd clung to the man ever since he'd died. He was the only person he had left who cared. At least, the only person he had left who cared and he could still talk to. And even if Wilbur was only going to be gone for a little bit (though time worked so strangely here, who really knew?), Tommy wasn't ready for that separation.

And he sure as hell wasn't ready to be left alone with Jschlatt.

He didn't like kids, that much was obvious. Or anyone, really.

Apparently he and Wilbur had talked quite a bit before Tommy's arrival, which Tommy couldn't blame him for; Wilbur had to talk to somebody, and until now the afterlife didn't have any options except for the previous tyrant. But the moment Schlatt had seen Tommy, palpable disgust had formed on his face and he had fled the scene.

That was fine by Tommy. He didn't like Tommy, and Tommy didn't like him.

But now that Wilbur was gone for a while, being around Schlatt was better than being alone.

Schlatt coughed after a drag. Tommy eyed him uneasily.

Schlatt didn't have scars, Tommy was noticing. Wilbur did. He had a big ugly one in his chest from where Phil had stabbed him, gaping and hard to ignore. Schlatt, having not died to something so physical, had no such thing. But his eyes looked vacant, tired, and bloodshot, and drool seemed to constantly drip down his chin. Disgusting motherfucker, Tommy thought.

It did get him thinking, though. He hadn't seen himself once since his death. When he'd asked Wilbur about his gash, Wilbur had confessed that all the injuries they'd received subsequent to their death would probably remain and hurt forever. Tommy himself had aches all over his body; Dream had done a number on him. He was left with a head that pounded almost constantly and a body that throbbed with every movement.

He wondered how he looked.

He cleared his throat and called, "Oi, bitch."

Schlatt looked to him, unimpressed. "Hm?"

"Ey, uh... so we're all a bit ghost-y now, yeah?"

"Sure."

"You gots your little... red... devil horns, 'n Wilbur's got his scar..." Tommy crossed his arms, "... What do I look like?"

Schlatt took pause, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. His lips fell to a frown as he scanned Tommy up and down, his eyes filling up with something that was almost, almost pity. Tommy's stomach sank; that didn't bode well.

Schlatt tore his eyes away from him and shook his head, gaze cast down.

Tommy swallowed nervously. "Well?"

The only thing Schlatt said after a long pause was, "Stay away from mirrors, kid."