#Hope you like these snippets!

[momochizoey]

Not sure if I'm supposed to send in separate asks, but here we go!

Burning Cherry Blossom

The Godhood Gambit

Historiography of the Elemental Nations: Sakura the Historian

Michizula Sugarmommy fic

Would love to read whatever you've got for each of these please!

No worries, one ask works! I'll put the snippets for all of them below a read more:

Burning Cherry Blossom:

Sakura had always walked a fine line between two irreconcilable ideals, two oaths. 

She was a medic. She took an oath to heal the injured, to treat the sick, to save those who could be saved and ease the suffering of those who could not. Enemy or ally alike were to be healed to the best of her ability (even if enemies just ended up in the Torture & Interrogation Department afterwards; a living enemy was worth much more than a dead one, particularly to the village with a clan of mindwalkers).

She was also a shinobi. When she graduated at 12, she swore an oath to her Hokage and to her village to be a tool, a weapon in its hands, to kill and to lie and to steal and indeed to die for the Great Tree that was the Village Hidden in the Leaves, to fuel its Will of Fire with her own. It sounded very heroic at the time, but the following years had taught her that there was no honour in being a shinobi. Your closest friend from yesterday could try to stick a fist of lightning through your chest the next day. The ninja invading your village and killing your people one day could be your most sincere allies tomorrow. Honour was for samurai and for the dead, Tsunade always told her. 

The Fire Nation was honourable to its very core. It wasn’t just a virtue here, it was a way of life. 

It wasn’t all sunshine and roses of course. There was war, a longer war than Konoha had even existed (and wasn’t that a mindfuck to think about). But even there, honour was a priority. Civilian casualties were avoided where possible, targeting only those capable of bending or combat. When possible, even enemy combatants were held captive instead of killed. Soldiers kept themselves to standards almost as strict as Konoha medics.

For the first time since Lady Tsunade took her under her wing, she didn’t feel the tension between those two roles pulling at her seams.

She had wondered if everyone in this world was just like that. The possibility was both inspiring and terrifying. Inspiring, because it showed Naruto’s dream might be possible after all. Terrifying, because what if all it would take was the rise of one group that thought differently to bring it all down, the way the shinobi had for the samurai. 

She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved when her time in Ba Sing Se proved even this gentle world had its dark Roots hiding underground.

“What is this about? Your agents show up in the middle of the night and drag me down here?” She made sure to struggle against her Root-wannabe captors. Seriously, she might have to get them some blank masks at some point. “You will not treat a Kyoshi Warrior this way!” 

“But you’re not a Kyoshi Warrior, are you, Princess Azula of the Fire Nation?”

The Danzo act would have probably put her on guard more if she didn’t know for a fact Long Feng wasn’t even one tenth as strong as that warhawk ever was. 

Still, Azula knew the real danger a man like this posed was never his own prowess. No, the danger lay in his command over his private army, and his ability to make the shadows his home.

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

What he didn’t realize was that a new monster, a shinobi, was now skulking these shadows, far more dangerous and experienced than he could ever be. 

“I want to make a deal.”

He wasn’t going to last a week.

The Godhood Gambit:

"Your Highness, the enemy troops are sallying forth from their positions!"

Stifling a gasp, Mio turned towards her father, anxiously watching his reaction through her veil. The frown that had hung off his face since the start of the siege was briefly replaced by a sad look she couldn't quite identify, before his expression hardened into the proud warrior he had been before her birth.

"It is time. Men, you have your orders. Protect the city with your lives. Today we show these Pirates why water doesn't last in the desert".

A resounding roar answered his proclamation, and then the court was filled by clanking weapons, chafing leather, and barking orders.

Her father's voice rang out over the noise. "Takeo. Stay behind."

Cursing under her breath, she hurried towards her father's side, hoping she could reach him before -

"Your majesty," she heard the glib voice of her betrothed say and groaned. "What task do you have for me? Shall I take out the enemy admiral? Burn down their flagship? Flank their forces?"

Her father shook his head. "No, I need you for a much more important task." Takeo puffed out his chest, ready to receive the honour of a lifetime - "I need you to guard Mio in the Sun Shrine."

"But Lord Haruya-"

"But father! -"

"I have made up my mind on this, both of you," her father cut them both off. "My daughter is the chosen of the Sun God, and my only heir. Without her, there is no future for the Land of Fire." Then he turned to her. "Mio, your safety is of the utmost importance, and Takeo is to be your husband, your future king. You need to learn to trust him, and let him cover your weak spots if you are to be Queen. You are a team. Please, act like it."

Mio bit her tongue, forcing herself to nod. 'Maybe if he wasn't such a dick, we'd be a decent team by now, but it's not like I got a say in who my husband would be now did I?'

She glanced at Takeo and flinched. She had never seen such a venomous look on his face before as he bowed low. "Of course, my lord. I will ensure your daughter's safety."

Silence reigned as her father stared him down. "See that you do," he concluded.

Her father held her back for a moment longer.

There was something in his eyes in that moment that made her freeze. He looked terrified, like he was afraid she would disappear any moment.

He held her shoulder, his dark hand moving a strand of her blond hair out of her face. "Please, my Ray of Sunshine. Promise me you will stay in the shrine with Takeo until I tell you it's safe today. No matter what happens, I need to know you will stay out of danger."

She hugged him, not wanting to see that strange sad look anymore. "I promise. I love you, father."

He held her tight for a moment. "And I love you, Mio."

He let go. "Now, go, you two. May the Sun God protect you."

Historiography of the Elemental Nations: Sakura the Historian:

Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. A trite saying, but not without merit. The Uchiha and Senju, Kamizuri and Fushō, Karatachi and Yuki. All clans that joined together under the banner of villages to prevent the bloodshed of their people. A mere 20 years later would see each of their villages perpetrate and suffer more catastrophic losses than ever before

“-and that’s why the clans lived together peacefully within Konoha ever since. Alright, now everybody grab your lunches, and I’ll see you all at the target range for shuriken practice in an hour!”

Sakura dutifully finished her notes as Mizuki-sensei finished up the class, then hesitated. She wanted to hurry outside to have lunch and chat with Ino, but something was bugging her. 

Ino shot her a questioning look when she noticed Sakura lagging behind. 

“You go ahead,” Sakura said. “I still have some questions about the lesson.”

Ino shrugged and skipped ahead, effortlessly inserting herself in the center of the conversation with some other girls from their class. For a moment Sakura felt a stab of envy, wishing she could navigate social situations as seamlessly as her more popular friend, but she buries it, focusing instead on her current goal. 

“Ah, Mizuki-sensei? I had a question about today’s material.”

Mizuki looked up with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t understand something from the lesson? That’s unlike you, Sakura-chan.” 

Sakura blushed, the compliment catching her unaware. 

“Ah, I - Thank you Mizuki-sensei, it’s just - I was curious about what it was like during the Warring Clans period? I mean, you said it took a lot of convincing for the Senju and Uchiha to work together, and for other clans to join. But if it was so bad during that time, there had to have been more people looking for alternatives, right? Or they had to have good reasons not to change? I don’t know what period came before, but maybe it was even worse then? I thought…”

She trailed off, heart sinking. Mizuki was looking at her like she had turned into a toad, completely baffled, though that look was slowly replaced by something she couldn’t identify.

He remained silent for a moment. “Sakura-chan, I’m sorry to say but there wasn’t anything before the Warring Clans period, nothing we know of at least. There’s myths about the Sage who supposedly lived between one and two thousand years ago, but that’s more the domain of Temple Monks, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

“Nothing??” Inner shouted, and she couldn’t help but agree. “What does he mean, nothing!? It can’t have just been 800 years of Warring Clans if it was so horrible. There’s got to be more on this!”

Seeing her look of confusion, he seemed to decide something. “Tell you what, I’ll write you a pass for the library giving you access to some history scrolls of genin level, if you can do some research about the history before the founding and write me an essay about it, I’ll grade it for extra credit, does that sound good? You have to promise you’ll keep up with your normal schoolwork however, although I doubt you’ll have any problems with that.” He winked as he said that, and she felt the blood rushing to her cheeks again.

“Th-Thank you Mizuki-Sensei! I won’t let you down!”

She grabbed the permission slip, stuffing it in her pocket, and ran outside to find Ino again.

Michizula Sugarmommy AU:

Standing in front of the door ready to knock, Azula hesitated. She’d often stood in front of this very door years ago, impatiently waiting for Mai to show up. Being here now for a very different reason, she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She still didn’t know if she could trust Matsuri. Could this be a plot Mai cooked up, a trap she was about to walk into? 

Azula knew Mai still didn’t trust her around Zuko. Despite her complete lack of involvement in politics since the end of the war, she’d heard her image, as it was portrayed in the old propaganda posters, was still considered a rallying point for opponents to Zuko’s rule. If Mai had discovered where Azula’s desires truly lay, there was no doubt in her mind she would publicly expose her to tarnish her image among the Sozinists and to protect Zuko’s position. But why she’d use her old home when Azula would recognize it instantly, she didn’t know.

She steeled herself then. If it was a trap, so be it. If it gained her new enemies, at least it would give her a target for her anger that wasn’t herself. Agni, if it lost her the dubious ‘support’ of those who’d preferred her as the monster she’d been, perhaps she’d be viewed with less suspicion. 

Decision made, she gave a firm knock on the door and waited. And waited. Finally, the door opened to reveal Mai’s mother Michi. 

The last time she had seen Michi had been back in Omashu, but there she had been wearing an outfit that was appropriate for the colder Earth Kingdom climate. This time Azula couldn’t help but notice the way the thinner fabric clung to her form, revealing more of her figure than before without diminishing her elegance a bit. She forced herself to meet Michi’s gaze, holding back a blush. Clearly, being caught reading a scroll like that had rattled her more than she thought.

Michi raised an eyebrow at her, having noticed her appraising look, and she flushed a bit. Great going, Azula. Ambush or not, she was already making a fool of herself. 

Michi smiled warmly at her, and stepped forward to give her a hug. “Azula, darling, what a lovely surprise! What brings you here tonight? Did Mai want to meet you here for some reason? She should have told me, I’d have had the cook prepare you two a meal!” She pulled back from the hug a bit, her hands still on Azula’s arms.

Azula shook her head and cleared her throat. “No, no, Mai didn’t ask me to come here. I’d heard there was a type of… soirée, of sorts, here tonight? A woman named Matsuri mentioned it. She told me to tell you she’d invited me.”

Michi gave her an intrigued look at that, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Did she now? How interesting. She did tell me she invited someone, but it seems she failed to inform me it was such a close family friend.” She stepped aside, gesturing for Azula to enter while laying a gentle hand on the small of her back. “Please, darling, come in! You’re always more than welcome here, let me show you around.”

They walked down the opulent halls, paintings of flowers and mountains decorating the walls. Finally, they arrived at a dark wooden door. Azula remembered Mai telling her and Ty Lee that it was a room her mother occasionally entertained guests in, and that they weren’t allowed in. She’d been curious about the room for a little while after that, like any kid told not to do something, but it was always kept locked, and as they started spending more time at the palace she ended up forgetting all about it. 

Now, hearing multiple voices talking and laughing behind it, her old curiosity rose up once more. 

Michi put a hand on the door and sent her a smile before pushing it open. “Welcome, Azula, to the Golden Orchid Society.”

The room beyond showed itself to be a tastefully decorated lounge. As she followed Michi in she could see a table where four women were playing mahjong in the corner to the left of the door. In the middle of the room, stretching from the northern to southern end, was a long, low table, surrounded by red-cushioned zaisu. Behind that in the other corner stood an impressively filled wine rack. 

The southern half of the room had two seating areas next to a set of wide open sliding doors taking up the entire southern wall. To the right of the entrance, three women were seated around a small round table, two of them sitting very close together on the red couch decorated with a stitched golden floral pattern. The second conversation area was across the room, featuring an L-shaped couch around a small coffee table with Matsuri and another woman gesturing wildly as they discussed something.  

The sliding doors opened up to show an entirely walled-in garden. There was a tree, two flower bushes, and a path going around a small half-moon shaped pond. On the other side in the arch of the pond stood a pavilion.

Azula gaped as she took in her surroundings. Never in her wildest imagination did she think this could be hidden in the home of her childhood friend. She turned back to Michi when she heard her laugh.

“Should I take your silence as a good sign? I’m glad I can still impress you even when you no doubt grew up with much more luxurious surroundings.” She then gestured for Azula to follow her again.”‘Come, let me introduce you to everyone.”

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[timefall-if]

i fear my hungry ass needs a snippet... preferably of M... or of black market medic MC... or both... pls and ty 🙇🏾‍♀️ (btw ur if is looking great and i cant wait to see where the story goes!)

M spits out blood, leaving a dark and wet spot on the floor. With one hand, they hold a can of cold beer at the back of their head, hissing at the feel of it and shutting their eyes tight.

The party had just finished when you walked in through the metal doors, and the mess still hadn't been taken care of yet. The walls are smeared with makeup and piss, unintelligible words written in bright lipstick and circled with smelly sprays of yellow. Ugly confetti lays sprinkled around chipped chairs, and there are a few strings of neon lights still flickering against the ceiling.

You're sitting next to M at the bar, pouring cheap vodka onto a napkin. You turn to them, holding your hand open, waiting for them to give you their other arm. M does so without so much as a glance in your direction, their eyes still closed and head thrown back.

“This will sting a bit,” you say, focusing on the deep scratches on their skin.

As soon as the alcohol touches their arm, M grunts. “Fuck …"

Their body tightens and limbs flex. You look up at them slightly, your stare fixed on their muscles. M's arms are greenly bruised, surely ugly and brutish to someone else's eye.

Not to you, though. Never to you.

"Like what you see?"

You wince at being caught eyeing your best friend. Were you so obvious?

Your back straightens and you meet M's bright green eyes for a moment. Their eyebrows are slightly raised, an insufferably teasing smirk playing on their lips.

"Shut up," you mumble, turning back to the vodka bottle and napkins on the bar counter.

The sound of M's raspy laugh makes the corners of your own mouth turn upward, your head shaking in both affection and exasperation at once. You grab your scissors and cut some white, soft gauze.

M closes their eyes again. "How'd you get all this stuff so quick, anyway?" they ask.

You snort. "Eh. Marek knows someone."

There is a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward, but there is something you have been meaning to ask, something that just keeps bugging you, and you know M could smell your curiosity from miles away.

You hesitate before moving your body in front of M again and starting to gently dress their wound. "So, wanna tell me what happened earlier?"

They sigh, "Besides getting my ass beat?"

Your mind drifts back to tonight's fight. The lights of the underground pit were bright in the centre, leaving the rest of the room almost dark. The crowd was loud and wild, crushing you, spit coming out their mouths as they yelled the name of the fighter they bet on, willing them to not let their audience lose their money.

M put up a good fight, they always do. They've fought against this opponent before too. Even though the guy was bigger and meaner, M had won every single time. Until tonight.

You don't know how it happened. One moment, M was pushing him into a corner, their fists coming up at the guy's head and hitting hard. Then their gaze slipped to the crowd and saw you, something in their eyes changing from wild and animalistic to vulnerable, then ambitious. Next second, you see M thrown on the floor, the impact knocking the air out of them. Their opponent started to blindly punch wherever his hands would land, though M kept fighting back, using their legs to hit the guy in the stomach.

But it wasn't enough. M kept sneaking glances at you, almost as if to check if you were still there. They were exhausted, bleeding from their nose, and definitely couldn't take any more hits. Marek stopped the fight and got the guy off M, but they couldn't meet your eyes anymore, not even once.

You keep your head down as you pull the gauze on M's arm tighter. "You were doing good, M. I saw you."

They shift in their chair, the metal screeching against the floor. Your hands work deftly at patching M's scratches, and your fingers linger on their skin just for a second too long. Then you let go.

But M's hand catches yours before you get a chance to turn around again, yet their eyes are still closed, head almost bowed.

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

M's eyes snap to you, finally holding your gaze for longer than ever tonight. Their brows furrow as they look at you, a scrunch between them that you move to slowly rub away with your thumb. Their stare is still trained on you—on your face, your eyes, your lips. They follow your every move, their breath hot on your skin. And you think you might know now what they were distracted by. Or more precisely, who.

They plop back into their seat, still holding your hand. "I just ... I don't know. You're right, I was doing good. And then I saw you in the crowd and I-"

M stops themselves, tongue scraping the inside of their cheek, trying to swallow back the words that are threatening to spill out of them without their permission.

"Doing good wasn't enough anymore. I wanted-fuck, I don't know what I wanted. To show you that I could do even better, I guess. And instead, I just fucking embarrassed myself."

This is what that was about? M wanting to prove themselves to you?

You tie a knot with the ends of the gauze strip, securing it on M's arm as you finish the job. They let go of your hand, allowing you to put your utensils back on the counter. You clean the scissors with agonisingly slow movements, feeling the sharp blades beneath the napkin. If you pressed slightly harder, they would cut you.

Once you're done, you sigh. The silence between the two of you stretches, heavy like a blanket. You pause before you turn to them, trying to catch their eye again, but they pointedly avoid your gaze.

Tsk. Frustrated, you grab M's face with both hands so they wouldn't be able to look anywhere else but at you. Their eyebrows raise as if they would've expected you to just let it go. They should know you better by now.

"You don't have to worry about that stuff with me, M. You're always the best. And I'll root for you ... even if you take a punch or two. Okay?"

They try to move their head from between your fingers, but you don't let them. You keep your hold firm, not breaking eye contact. "Okay?"

M looks at you and grabs your arms gently, their skin harsh but their touch as soft as a breeze. For a moment, you think they will push you away, whatever you said surely being the wrong thing.

But M keeps holding your arms instead, keeping them in place, your hands still on their face.

"... Okay."

[ghqstwriter]

How about a villain that’s horrible at flirting, and a hero finally realizing that the villain was in fact trying to flirt this whole time instead of being intimidating

Hero wasn't exactly the claustrophobic type, far from it. However, Villain's presence felt so overwhelming that they couldn't help but cower, trapped between the brick wall and the tyrant in front of them, face dark as usual. They didn't want to admit it at first, but Hero was more than terrified of the criminal. Sure, the hero was competent, a superhero with the highest success rate on their team. They were envied for their powers, and praised for their heroic deeds. Invincible, some would say. Yet it was nothing in comparison to Villain.

The criminal had always managed to find a way to be several steps ahead. Sometimes, it felt as though their (immensely impressive) acts were nothing to them, just a detour in their grand plans; a fun game that involved spinning the hero around in circles aimlessly. Hero was the city's shining honour, the one on the front lines, their best defence, and yet Villain was way out of their league. Too powerful of a threat to imagine overcoming.

And now, here they were, both supers dressed down in civilian outfits, with nowhere for Hero to run. A shiver crept up their spine. It wasn't the first time Hero had seen Villain's face before, for they had taken off their mask mid battle one time. An act of mockery, Hero had assumed: it doesn't matter if you can track me down, there's nothing you could do to me. But Hero had always been cautious to keep their double life under wraps. And now, it was about to come tumbling down, a house of cards that Villain had sniffed out almost instantaneously.

"Come here often?" They spoke, voice as monotone and threatening as usual. Hero gulped, hoping Villain wouldn't notice their darting eyes. Why would that matter? Was this place of importance to Villain? Oh God, was this some front, or some stashed away hideout? They just wanted to grab some takeout after an arduously long day of work, but of course their luck had to shove them under the bus.

"No I, uh, was just looking for a quick meal after work, you know how it is, right?" Hero stammered out pathetically, already regretting their choice of words as soon as they tumbled out of their mouth. Of course the villain wouldn't be caught dead eating greasy takeaway after barely winning an uphill battle. Hero knew a handful of heathens who would kill someone for presuming that. The thought chilled them. Here's to hoping they aren't one of them.

"Dinner, here? Aren't you supposed to be the agency's shining star? Seems a little beneath a hero's standards to me." Villain remarked, voice still as sinister as usual. They didn't believe the hero, was that it? Did Villain think they caught someone snooping around, jamming their nose right where it shouldn't be? Hero could only hope there was a different motive here, else they're certain that the punishment for that would be horrific.

"It wouldn't be particularly heroic of me to ask for compensation for what I do. Defeats the whole purpose of a good samaritan if you ask me," Hero retorted back, hoping that if they pretended they weren't cornered, it would somehow come true. Villain only chuckled grimly, as though Hero's answer was amusing rather than desperate, albeit somewhat true. Sure, they could probably negotiate a better salary if they really wanted it, but Hero was seldom the type to want anything. They took what was given and stuck to the rungs of their ladder.

"Hm, I suspected as such from you," Villain began, words setting Hero on edge. As much as their words changed, their tone never did, remaining at a monotone baseline which happened to be a menacing and threatening harmony. "You know the other heroes at your agency could never feel the same way, don't you?"

Of course they did; it was apparent to anyone with some semblance of a brain that most of the agency's recruits were flashy, looking for a rise to fame or a reason to feel some superiority. Most of them got weeded out fast when they realised just how gritty the job got, not that the agency cared. New faces kept the public excited, meant there was still intrigue and some sick form of relevancy. Hero knew this, but that shouldn't surprise anyone. The way Hero's attitude contrasted their peers, it felt like a fact not worth bringing up, of course they were different. So why bring it up, Hero pondered.

This wasn't, in fact, the first time Villain had mentioned this, either. Nor the second, or the third, and definitely not the fourth. It seemed to be the Villain's favourite comment during their encounters, how unique the hero's motives seemed to be. Authenticity in a field of insincerity, as they had once put it. Perhaps it was why the villain seemed to terrorise Hero more than anyone else – more fun to watch someone with only good intentions crumble under the weight of failure and shame. All coherent responses and witty comebacks crumpled up and disintegrated before they could make their way out of Hero's throat, so they opted to change the subject.

"What do you want from me, Villain?" It was all Hero could manage without coming across as particularly feeble. There was no point trying to writhe their way out of the situation, nothing they could say would stop a villain. 'Please, no, I'm unarmed!' As though a criminal could ever have the decency to care. The criminal took a step closer in response, probably knowing just how claustrophobic Hero was, and using it to their advantage. It was their fault, really, for being such an open book right now. They weren't exactly good at hiding their fear, not when it came to Villain.

"You're trembling, and not in the way I'd prefer you to be," they stated, leaving Hero's fear to momentarily be replaced by confusion. What did that even mean? The superhero's mind jumped straight to the worst scenario, and then the terror started to seep in again. Trembling in pain, that's what Villain wanted, of course. Great, on they were about to be kidnapped and tortured (probably for fun, who the fuck knew at this point) and their last act of free will would have been heading to the shittiest fast food place in the city and––

"You're scared of me. Downright terrified. Trust me, it was more than enjoyable at first, but it's getting a little excessive, don't you think? Sort of loses it's novelty when you go from intimidated to practically-sobbing-at-the-sound-of-my-voice levels of fear. I plan on changing that."

Hero's spiralling train of thought ceased for a beat at those words, only to be replaced by a new, slightly less terrified model. They weren't what Hero was expecting at all. Villain was petrifying, and the way they spoke consolidated that entirely. If they weren't happy with how terrified Hero was, why did they keep acting like that? Why did they insist on getting as close to the hero as possible? And, hey, whilst they were on the subject, why on earth would Villain have a problem with this? They were missing something, one cog that would get all the other gears turning.

"Am I understanding you correctly? You're mad that I'm– scared of you? Like that's a bad thing, now?" Hero questioned, trying to push back during this brief moment where bewilderment overcame distress. Villain scoffed at that, though didn't come across as particularly offended.

"Listen, Hero. Some murky alleyway isn't where I'd like to be having this conversation. There's a new restaurant opening up a few blocks away from here. I'm not one to keep up with the fine-dining corner of the world, but I can only assume it's of a better standard than this place. I'll come find you tomorrow night, so you'd best be ready. No weapons, no teammates, no unceremoniously poisoned wine on either side. Just us. And don't worry, it'll all be out of my pockets, you won't have to stain your reputation of honourability and ask for that payrise. I'll see you then."

Villain was gone before Hero could properly register what had been said. Vanished untraceably, after dropping one bombshell after another. And, just like that, the geartooth clicked into place, and Hero's brain started thinking. Slowly at first, but picking up and changing into a great speed, so fast that they thought they might overheat, blood rushing to their face. Had Villain asked them out on a date?

[the-kingshound]

To tie you over until the official update, and to reward everyone for being so patient, here is the complete first scene of the next update, picking just after MC left with Saraah.

SPOILER

Camelot, the King’s private chambers

Arthur fixes once again the cape around his shoulders.

“How do I look?” he asks, turning around.

Tristan steps forward, his movements measured and heavy, posture rigid as it almost always is. He is Arthur’s oldest Round Table Knight, and he bears the sign of age as well as numerous scars acquired during his years close to King Uther. The majority of them aren’t battle scars, but Arthur doesn’t allow themselves to think about it, because it would surely make them spiral.

“You look like a King.”

Despite the cool tone of his voice, bordering on detached formality, his words bring Arthur a sort of soothing comfort that is there regardless of the meaning of the words themselves. Even that is only temporary, though. Arthur’s lips curve up in a hesitant, slightly strained smile.

“Will it be enough?”

Tristan takes a step forward. Slowly, just brushing him, he fixes a stray lock of his King’s hair.

“Yes, it will. It needs to be.”

The discomfort, though, doesn’t lessen around Arthur’s insides. Instead, it only grows when Tristan lowers his arm and takes a step back. Immediately, he misses the contact. His mind buzzes in the same way it did when, trembling, he would walk at night towards the Knights barracks and seek Ser Tristan’s embrace after what his father put him through.

He doesn’t-

He-

Suddenly, Tristan is holding him again. His body isn’t warm, the armour poking Arthur in a way it could become uncomfortable if not for the way the static slowly leaves his brain, leaving a mess of uncertainty and fear behind.

Arthur buries his face in the crook of the older knight’s neck. “I don’t know what to do...”

“You are doing everything Uther would not have done,” Tristan says, evenly. Arthur feels the warm caress of validation on his prickling skin.

Tristan would know.

He lets the silence stretch for a few moments before he murmurs, in a hushed confession, “they are a battle mage. The one who disfigured Bedivere.”

Tristan doesn’t pull away from the embrace yet; even though these days his physical contacts with the King are much shorter in length than they were when he was a terrified child. Arthur soaks up his presence now, while he can.

“The Venegard child?” Tristan asks.

Arthur nods against his neck.

“I will speak of it with them soon. Otherwise, they will rightfully think-“ Arthur’s voice fades.

“…my father would have put them-” he starts to say, voice trembling and cracking on the last word. Anticipating their anxious, spiralling thoughts, Tristan pulls back, though leaving a hand on the King’s arm.

“None of that. He is dead and buried. As for you, don’t burden yourself with more than you can carry.”

Arthur exhales. The weight that has settled heavily on his stomach doesn’t lessen.

“Just as the kingdom is my responsibility, my spouse is my responsibility as well.”

The older knight is about to answer when a knock interrupts him. Arthur wipes his face, curving his lips in a slightly wobbly smile and calling, “yes?”

Ser Ector enters first, placing himself at Tristan’s side and leaving space for Mordred to approach Arthur. Some of the previous stress is replaced by tenderness at the sight of him so put together, face set in a formal expression.

“Oh, look at you,” Arthur can’t resist his cooing. “Are you all set?”

Modred nods, solemn. He stays silent, as he often does, though Arthur has to say that he has been quite less closed off around his soon to be spouse. It might be a naïve hope, but he still does wish for Mordred to grow closer with them. Arthur has tried his best but… obviously, if Mordred feels comfortable around someone, even if it isn’t him, he will welcome it with open arms.

“The Venegard child is about to enter the Chamber of Lords,” Ector announces, ever so direct.

Arthur inhales, straightening himself up as much as he is able to.

“Well then. We shall go. It wouldn’t do to be late to my own wedding.”

[charming-doodles]

Happy Holiday Truce @jackdaw-sprite !!! (And a happy new year~)

I kinda smushed two Lost Time prompts and was inspired by two posts you tagged as Lost Time for inspiration since I've never really written or drawn art exploring Danny and Clockwork's relationship before. (Hope that's ok xp) I hope you like it ><

Danny raced through the Zone, struggling to reach Clockwork's lair as ghost after ghost delayed him, picking a fight with what Danny's core quietly noted was motivated by desperation.

Desperate to what? Beat him to the ground?

No, that wasn't it.

His core hummed with... discomfort??? Unsatisfaction??? None of these ghost were giving him what he wanted.

What did he want?

Danny didn't know. Didn't have time to think as he blasted away one of his rouges, confusion bubbling when Pandora of all ghosts seemed to bow at her defeat. Although, it wasn't like she was putting much effort into their fight. She seemed only amused. A quiet acceptance lingering in her eyes as he slowly floated away from her.

"I understand I can't have you. Not with how your cores call for each other."

...what?

He didn't stick around for an answer. A desperate need like no other pulling him towards Clockwork. Idly, as he finally reached Clockwork's lair, a conversation he had with Clockwork resurfaced.

"Ugh, that's the third time this week that Skulkers broken his promise not to attack during school hours! And it's only Tuesday!" Clockwork simply smiled in amusement as Danny ranted about his day.

"But as I recall, you've successfully ended the fight before the Fentons showed up with minimal damage. You're improving. What is there to complain about?"

Danny snarled but pulled back, startled at his harsh reaction, hands slapping his mouth closed. Where did that come from?

"Sorry, it's just that..." He growled softly, flexing his hands into fists, "Lately these fights have been feeling so... UGH lame!"

"Lame?"

"Yeah! Lame." He huffed, looking away from Clockwork, knowing he was laughing at his childish insult.

"Poor thing." Danny's core bubbled at the insult. Clockwork raised his brow towards Danny, the ghostling's irritability easy to read with how little control he has in hiding his core's projections. "Is the lame fights to blame for your irritability or does the baby ghost need a bedtime?"

"BEDTIME?!" He stuttered at the offense, his core surged at the insult. He groaned. "Don't tell me you want to pick a fight, too! That's what everyone seems to want from me lately! At least you'll be a challenge."

Clockwork's eyes pierced right through his soul and Danny involuntarily shivered with fear.

"Perhaps tomorrow."

"Tsk- Perhaps tomorrow." Danny mocked. "Scared you'll lose?"

"No." He smiled a little, "I'd like to see their desperation as they fight for guardianship one last time. I let this go on long enough."

Guardianship. His core hummed with recognition. Expectation.

This was it. What was it? He wouldn't be alone anymore! Since when was he alone? He just had to prove himself! But why??

He entered Clockwork's lair with a grimace, irritated and tired from all the ghosts attacking him since their last conversation. Everyone understood what they were fighting for except him. Would Clockwork even explain himself after?

He didn't have much time left to think, when Clockwork swung at him. His core hummed with excitement, wild green eyes meeting calm, piercing red.

Game on.

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[wwasted]

fin’s fic recs: little beasts series by @swifty-fox

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been fifteen years since my last confession.”

[save-the-villainous-cat]

hero x villaim but hit them with the "with everybody watching us, our every move, we each have reputation" (NOT A WRITING REQ UNLESS U WANNA DO IT !!!! just a silly thought I'd share bc . theyre so doomed) :3 -🐏

“You’re upset with me.” The villain chose their words carefully. In a situation like this, it wouldn’t be smart to let their emotional side win over.

“I am. I am very upset with you,” the hero said. They still looked terrible from the fight. Scratches and bruises covered their face as if the hero was the night sky and their wounds the stars. Even though the villain knew not to rush into things, they only wished to tend to the hero’s wounds.

“You know I couldn’t let you die.”

“I begged you to save those people instead of me,” the hero argued.

“It sounds horrible but I didn’t care about these people. My decision was made in an instant. I decided to save you, I decided to reach for you without even considering.” The villain wanted to explain it, wanted to make sure the hero understood. It had been an easy decision. It was cruel but it was the truth.

And now, the hero was starting to cry.

“I asked you to save these innocent people. These ten innocent people that had lives and families and jobs. These people who were important, who were someone’s entire world. Ten of them!” they choked out between sobs.

“You will save more people in the future than all of them would have combined,” the villain tried to argue but they knew, deep down they knew, how their weakness of logic and reason got in their way. They couldn’t help but see the world as patterns and effects. With explanations and conclusions weaving around them — a big terrible net of information.

They knew it wasn’t what the hero wanted nor what they needed to hear but the villain couldn’t give them what they deserved, they couldn’t find the comforting words.

They couldn’t even find a solution this time.

“That’s not the point. People aren’t numbers. People aren’t data,” the hero said. By now, tears streamed down their face and the villain wondered if they’d let them brush those tears away for them. Probably not. “I wanted you to save them. I wanted you to do the right thing.”

“The right thing was saving you. I’d do it all over again.”

“I thought you could change.”

“I thought you’d understand.” The hero shook their head and wiped their tears away with a bruised and swollen hand. A mission going south. Partly because the villain had been present. It wasn’t easy to take the blame but the villain supposed this was the least they could do if finding the right words was impossible already.

“People are chess pieces to you. You move them around how you want and you don’t care. You truly don’t care what happens to any of them,” the hero said. The villain could see their red ears and their shaking hands. And in this very moment, the villain saw themselves as the monster that they were, as the horrible human being the hero saw them as.

“I care about you, isn’t that clear enough?” they asked. The villain’s voice was shaking.

The hero took in a deep breath. The villain wanted to hug them. They wished their hero could understand. They wished they’d stop crying.

It hurt that the hero hated them in this moment.

“You’re supposed to care about others, too. You’re — you’re supposed to use your intelligence for the greater good. For other people, for humanity. I thought you understood me.”

“I do,” the villain said. “I do understand you. But in that moment, deciding between you and those people was easy. I’m sorry.”

The hero stared at them, speechless.

“You will always be my priority,” the villain said. “Even if you hate me. Even if you kill me eventually. I won’t put up a fight.”

“Do you like being hated?”

“I like you more than I care about being liked,” the villain said. They weren’t sure if they’d ever see the hero again after this.

“And I loathe you for that. I loathe you for the person that you are.”

They didn’t see each other for a long time after that conversation.

[wickerwax]

Rain - Codywan FKB snippet

“Sir,” he says, quiet, and watches Kenobi’s spine turn to beskar.

“Commander,” he responds, equally quiet. “All is well, the watch is undisturbed. You may continue to rest.”

Cody sits up. General Kenobi sighs. “Truly, Cody, nothing is wrong.”

“Respectfully, sir, but if that were true we would both be sleeping.” Cody is nettled enough to already be moving to his own stool at the table. He takes a close look at his General in the faint light of the renewed motion sensor but -

If it weren’t the middle of the night cycle, if he hadn’t woken suddenly and seen the faintest chinks in this man’s composure already, he would never have thought something was amiss. Kenobi is bright-eyed and steady, even the dampness curling his hair only making him look warmer and more real, the drip having ceased to be within moments.

He smiles at Cody. “Not so, Commander, for here we are. No alarms, no issues, just a spot of unexpected wakefulness.”

And it – it almost fits. Having woken for no real reason, his General would have checked with the watch that all was well. Might choose to sit and poke at the battle plans or flimsiwork for a bit if he had felt too awake to sleep.

His posture falling defeated though, just- doesn’t fit right. They’ve been in this together for over a year and he’s seen Kenobi in all manner of states but the man doesn’t lose his composure easily, doesn’t falter – has seen him beaten and bruised and all-but-unconscious from exhaustion and he simply moves with it all. The slump – the bend-

It doesn’t fit right at all.

He raises an eyebrow and Kenobi’s smile fades. He studies Cody across the table and he has never feared that bright, clear gaze but in this moment he does wonder what he sees. What he’s looking for.

He can only be what he is. Cody gazes back.

[jusst-you-race]

@pitlanethoughts i hope this is sort of what you wanted!! slightly different to how charles is useless but i think pierre would be useless in a different way for the ccc snippet prompts

Charles Did you go see him?

Pierre I had a busy day 

Charles Pierre 

You are never going to get anywhere if you don’t apologise 

Pierre I still think he should be the one apologising 

Charles You’ve said this many times 

But either you apologise 

Or you shut up about his stupid smug smile that you want to kiss so much 

Pierre I said that once while drunk 

Charles And I will never let you live it down 

Because drunk 

Oh what is the phrase 

Drunk words say sober feelings?

Something like that 

Pierre Since when are you the wise friend 

Charles Since you started pining over Esteban 

Pierre I am not pining 

I am still pissed off at him 

I can’t be pining and pissed off at the same time 

Charles Yes you would think so

But it is one of life’s little miracles that you manage to make it work 

You need to go and see him tomorrow 

Pierre I still think ambushing him at work is a bad idea

Charles Ambushing 

So dramatic 

You are apologising! 

That is not an ambush 

Pierre He cannot leave if he doesn’t want to talk to me 

Charles If he does not want to talk to you he will simply kick you out 

If you think he is too polite not to then you do not know him at all 

Pierre I guess so 

Charles So tomorrow?

Because Lance will also be there the day after 

And I don’t know what your kinks are but I’m pretty sure public humiliation is not one of them 

Pierre Don’t be crude 

Charles I will get cruder if you do not go and apologise 

Pierre Fine! 

I will go tomorrow 

Happy?

Charles Oui 😇

[mitamicah]

✨Them 😭🥹✨

(inspired by a shirt I saw in a danish grocery store around pride)

[saleeba]

Arguing with Levi over something stupid and ur honestly tired of the whole thing so you just him with “Whatever you say beautiful” and he just turns his nose up and starts stumbling over his words

summary ♡ what the request says! 

pairing ♡ levi colwill x gn!reader

content ♡ fluff, attempting to settle a classic british debate, cursing, reader is so over levi 

a/n ♡ this is most probably not the argumentative scenario that anon had in mind but i fell into my silly guy tendencies >_< tysmm anon for requesting this & i hope u enjoyyyy <3<3

it’s been over forty-five minutes of the same aggravation from your boyfriend, or at least you assume so — you stopped keeping tabs a while ago, so incredibly tired of arguing with him over something so silly. sunday afternoons were supposed an agreed time for relaxation but today’s snack time was far from that after levi clocked the way you prepare your scones.

“it’s clearly jam first; you spread that shit with a knife then dollop the cream on top,” levi’s hands move maniacally, mimicking the same actions that he’s describing. “how would cream first make sense?”

“i dunno, babe. spread the cream then dollop the jam?” between brief chews of sweet cream-first scones, your words come across as way too nonchalant for the chelsea boy and a shrug from your shoulders to pair with them makes him even more incredulous. 

“that’s fucking disgusting.” 

an exasperated groan leaves your lips as you push back the stool that you’re sitting on at the island and reach your destination of the fridge, routing through tubs and packets for a refreshing bottle of orange juice.

“levi, if you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” there’s silence from levi as the sound of juice pouring into glass fills the atmosphere, and you can tell the cogs of pettiness are turning in your boyfriend’s brain. it’s the way his eyes narrow at you (you swear that if he were a cartoon character, he’d be shooting lasers at you right now) and his bottom lip juts out just the slightest, thinking about how to get one over you since he actually does want to eat the sweet treats that you had gotten up extra early to make.

“no, no, i have to show you how to do it properly, yeah?” a little point of the butter knife in his hand at you and the boy’s now giving you an unsolicited demonstration of how to layer that jam-cream combo. “so, what you do, yeah, is put the knife into the jam jar and the–”

you seriously can’t take this anymore, fearful that your eyes may get stuck in your skull if you roll them one more time.

“yeah, yeah, whatever you say, beautiful.”

and it takes just that to have your boyfriend drop the butter knife in the jam, falling over his words as he struggles to get them out and make his case. it will always be the way you say that word and more so say it to him, about him, that will run his mouth dry of anything against you.

“uh, yeah, well… look, uh–” 

a playful smirk from you has his heart squeezing in the best way. 

“are we done here, levi? because i would really like us to stop arguing over fucking jam and cream and go cuddle on the couch now.” 

you call the shots every time and levi can’t help but drop his case entirely, following you like a lovesick puppy to the sofa where you’ve taken the plate of scones along with their matching condiments, laying them out on the coffee table for him.

“show us how it’s done then, pretty boy.”

[velcrodoesstuffsometimes]

can you do more stupid villains x smart hero pretty please!! :3

My first writing ask omg omg omg! Umm lowk idk if i want the christmas special as apart of the storyline or not so um lmk if u liked it as apart if the story line or as a separate story! (Even though it's mentioned in here, IM STILL DECIDING DONT RUSH ME)

Stupid Villain and Smart Hero (part idk man :/)

"I'm sorry, you went to school for this and you still can't make a ray?" The Herk says in disbelief. Honestly, maybe this isn't the time to critique Villain. Hero is bound to a chair with rope and handcuffs, which Supervillain tied them up, and there's a large death ray pointed at them.

A broken one.

Villain blushes in embarrassment and stumbles over their words before finally spitting something out.

"W-well..." the Villain begins but they end up not saying anything after. They're lost in thought, the only thing in their mind is how cute Hero looks and how badly they want to just cuddle them.

Villain blushes and looks away.

"College was expensive, I dropped out!"

"The hero agency offers paid colleges"

"Stop trying to recruit me! I'm meant to be a Villain!!"

Hero rolls their eyes, already just wanting to go home and lay in bed. Or lay with Villain, whatever comes first.

"Im not, im just saying if you became a hero-"

"IDONTWANNABEAHERO-"

Villain whines and runs behind the death ray. They aim it in the air and do a few test pulls on the trigger but it gets them no where.

"Ah fuck me.." Villain murmurs, followed by more curse words and pissed off grunting. After an embarrassing amount of time, they finally look at Hero.

"Can you um.. okay- uhh- if I let you go.... can I kkdnap you again in like.. a week with a new ray?"

"Villains don't normally ask..."

"...right.." villain narrows their eyes and looks around. They groan and walk to Hero, untying them when they get close enough.

"You know," Hero starts, rubbing their wrists to sooth the rope burn (which didn't even hurt) "We can crash at my place and I can give you a few lessons on guns and rays" Hero offers.

Villain blushes at the thought of being with Hero in such close proximity again, they think about what happened on christmas. They think about it for a moment.

Dispite their mind thinking of being close to Hero, they also know that Hero will teach them what they need to know, and if they wanna make it as a Villain then they need to step up their game.

Fuck.

"F-fine. Only because I wanna be a good Villain! No other... other reason..."

"Whatever you say" Hero smiles and gets up now that they are free from the chair. They examine Villain a little more now, taking in wvee detail with a fond look.

"I'll cook your favorite if you'll stay the night" Hero sings their words and watches Villain blush harder and scowl, visibly torn between common Villain rules and the rules of their heart.

"...you know I can't do that. All your hero friends hate me, if anyone found out that I stayed.. youd probably lose your job."

"I know. It's all part of the thrill, no? I thought you loved the adrenaline?" Hero teases.

"...you better make my fucking food good. And I want a soda" Villain huffs and pats themselves down to get off some of the dirt.

Hero smiles and the two find themselves hamd in hand. Villian does all the talking while Hero listens.

Hero even bought Villains favorite soda.

[vicsbasement]

3. Clingy Charles

For the ask game

me using the same tropes and scenes sometimes as a mechanism to get me to write? fork found in the kitchen - if y'all can pinpoint from which fic i took the scene with Charles barging into the office while Carlos was getting fired you get another snippet. Also it seems like Teto is a recurring character in these! It's just that he's been so present lately it's impossible for me to ignore him.

"Leclerc's been acting weird." Teto tells him, one day. Carlos is walking along with him towards the back of the house where the bikes are parked when he says the thing out loud. Carlos arches and eyebrow and turns to him, questioning silently and asking him to elaborate as he starts checking the bike’s tyres are in good shape.

"Haven't you noticed?" Teto asks, his curls swishing to the side when he tilts his head in a silent inquiry. "I know you don't watch things back or anything but ever since they announced... Well. Pretty sure it's from before, even, but ever since the thing went public he's been... I don't know how to say it." Roberto pauses again as they open the garage door and Carlos is already fidgeting with the bike's lock to unclasp it. Carlos nudges him to get his lock off, and Teto obeys for a second while he thinks as the garage door whirs in the background.

"Remember that day I went to the factory with you?" He asks instead, and Carlos nods. It was a couple days after the team called him and met him in private to explain the leaked information about them contacting Lewis. It was a terrible day. He remembers some of it, but the fact that Charles was at the factory stuck to him the most. They weren't supposed to even be there together, let alone meet, but Charles seemed adamant to see him and had barged into the office instead of waiting outside, like he was supposed to.

Carlos was accompanied by his usual posse, his dad, Caco. Teto was there because they'd been training together and since Rupert had left, Carlos missed the company.

When Charles had barged into the office, he seemed out of breath, and his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Carlos couldn't really recall the last time he'd seen Charles cry, it had been too long, so he compartmentalized the whole thing as to justify the eyes with some other excuse, like allergies, because Charles was very sensitive to a plant that was very prominent in Italy and the pollen lifted during the winter, so he tended to have a bad time with sneezing and red-rimmed eyes.

"I mean, I remember. But I'm pretty sure that didn't mean much." Carlos says, sure that Teto meant the little display of emotion when he barged into the room.

Still, as soon as he had barged in, he'd bailed. He noticed that they were talking to Fred and Menkies, showered the room with apologies and bolted.

"I'm not talking about him barging in." Teto says, and Carlos now really is confused. If it wasn't about that, what was it?

"When we got out of the office, he— remember he asked for your dad's permission to take you out to eat?"

"Pretty sure he was just being polite, given that we were all there together and he was sort of breaking us up."

"Yeah, but... Well, okay, then, if you didn't notice that I don't know what to tell you. Still, have you watched the interview you guys did before Bahrain?"

"I watched it before they edited it." Carlos replies. And Teto's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he gets on his bike, still trying to make a point.

"You didn't notice how he physically recoils from the reminder that you're leaving?" He insists, and Carlos gets a little defensive because this isn’t really what he wants to be discussing right now, so he gets on his bike and whirs the pedals to fill the silence. Still, Teto nudges his shoulder so they both bike slowly towards the exit of the garage.

"Oye, Teto, ya está, ¿sí? Te estás pasando con lo de interactuar con las fans, tío. Qué coño le va a importar a Leclerc si me voy o no..." Carlos says, his tone final. Teto shrugs his shoulder cartoonishly as he takes the lead, moving swiftly out of the driveway.

"Oh, Carlos, you've got big eyes but not a good way to use them. You'll see. He's... I don't know. He's been different.” Roberto keeps searching for a word as he stops in the driveway to get his helmet on. “Changing. Like he's... Clingy!” He snaps his fingers victoriously. “That's the word. He's been clingy towards you. And he is like that sometimes but only when you start it. Now it's like he's... Craving it. I don't know, man."

"What the fuck are you saying, cabrón?" Carlos fights the urge to kick his shins as he puts his own helmet on. Sometimes when Teto gets an idea in his head its nearly impossible to convince him otherwise.

"Que Leclerc se va a dar una hostia de los cojones este año cuando se dé cuenta del compañero que está perdiendo, cabrón. Ya vas a ver." Teto grabs the handle of his bike, jumps back on it and starts pedaling in a soft pace, Carlos in tow.

"Huh. Well, okay, then. Let's... Start the season and see."

[kvothes]

Destiel, 42

OUT OF PRIDE:

Quick flick in the corner of his eye. Sense of heat. Dean reacts fast, grabbing that presumptive wrist and twisting. He slams Cas against the bunker wall, presses up close behind him. Settles the hammer in his free hand.

“Hi, honey,” he says in the angel’s ear. “Got you.”

“Dean.” Cas struggles against him. “Stop.” On a normal day, with a normal Dean, this wouldn’t even be a fight: Cas the angel is ludicrously stronger than a human, even a hunter.

But Dean still has the black eyes and jumped-up blood and strength to match it. He wrenches Cas’s arm up higher and makes a tsk in the back of his throat. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Not like this,” Cas pants. He struggles. Tries to twist away.

Dean leans closer. He licks a broad line up Cas’s jaw. Static on his tongue. The taste of grace, almost painful. Not Cas’s natural grace, though. Stolen somehow. “You little bastard,” he says, delighted. “Who’d you gank to get this lit up, huh? Whose juice are you running on?” 

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Cas grinds out. “Can you say the same?”

Dean grins against nape of Cas’s neck. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he says, low, dark. 

Cas attempts to trip him. Dean laughs and crushes him harder against the wall. “Come on, Cas,” he says, almost crooning in his ear. “Don’t you like me like this? I like me like this. I’m so strong, Cas, more’n I was as a human. Don’t you like it?” And he kisses Cas on the corner of his mouth, because he can, because he’s Dean fucking Winchester and he feels good in his corrupted skin. 

“This isn’t you,” Cas says. He won’t play along. Dean pouts.

“It’s better than me,” he says. 

“That’s not possible,” Cas says, and then he swings his head back and breaks Dean’s nose. Dean releases him, howling, and steps back—directly into the one-armed grip of Sam, whom he hadn’t heard coming.

“No,” Dean snarls, trying to fight him off, “no—” 

Cas’s eyes flash full of grace. He wraps his arms around Dean and all goes dark.