#sort of a snippet

[thepenultimateword]

Long Prompt #89

Hero’s armed were beginning to throb. It had been over half an hour since they’d snared themself in this back alley, wrists bound together and raised straight over their head, like some sort of trussed pig ready for the roast.

Usually they would have dodged it. Usually they wouldn’t have tripped it in the first place, but they’d been so… Desperate wasn’t the right word, maybe adamant? …so adamant about finding Villain that they had barely noticed the thing, it’s glinting wire body lurking in the shadows of the buildings.

They probably should have called for help by now…But the thought of being found like this was, well, more than a little humiliating.

“Hero?” a rich, velvety voice purred. “In one of my traps? Now I’ve seen everything.”

Villain sauntered into view grinning. They weren’t in their usual costume, instead sporting an tricolored sweater in blocks of brown, orange, and cream. They also had a large Tupperware tucked under one arm.

Well, it looked like Hero found them but not under the circumstances they wanted.

“Awww, you’re blushing!” Villain cooed.

“Shut up!”

“Aren’t you always bragging about your super intuition and lightning fast reflexes?”

“I said shut up!”

“And of all traps, a little snare meant to keep door to door salesman out of the lair. What are you even doing here?”

“I— Wait. What was that second to last part?”

“Oh, don’t worry, they learn fast. I actually haven’t snared one of those in months. Now, little egoistic heroes with pretty blue eyes on the other hand…” They grinned wider. “That’s the catch of the day.”

Hero squirmed a little in their bonds, wincing at the way the the pin and needles under their skin stung as they rubbed against the bindings. “Can you just let me down?”

“Reasons first.”

Hero glared but after a moment they finally relented. “I was…looking for you…”

“Aw, I’m flattered.” They circled Hero, sharp eyes studying the tight squeeze of their bindings. “But it’s a holiday. Probably not the best idea to assume I was at my workplace.”

“Er…that’s the thing. I was thinking… Since you don’t have anyone to spend Thanksgiving with, maybe you could come over to my place and—“

“Who said I have no one to spend Thanksgiving with?”

The rest of Hero’s sentence froze on their lips. They knew that they were staring too long, but they couldn’t seem to shut their mouth. Or blink.

“The other villains and I get together every year. Supervillain makes a mean pumpkin pie.”

“Oh,” Hero said finally. It was the most they could get out.

Villain suddenly narrowed their eyes, those daggerish pupils boring right through their skull.

“Hero, do you not have anyone to spend Thanksgiving with?”

“I… Of course I do! I was just… You know, there’s so many people coming over later that I better finish up my preparations. Gotta…clean the house, make the…er…stuffing. In fact I think I left my turkey in the oven! So, could you let me down now?”

Villain’s grin had all but disappeared. The ghost of it still weakly clinging to the curve of their mouth, a forced ugly thing that made Hero feel small.

“Please?” they added, a little harsher than they intended.

“Hero… Do you want to come to my Thanksgiving?”

#sort of a snippet #sort of a prompt #it’s a snompt #prompt #writing prompt #hero x villain #heroes and villains community #heroes and villains #hero x villain community #writblr #writeblr #thanksgiving

[moodlesmain]

I am THIS close to going full conspiracy board trying to piece together the components of my favourite genre "spooky, mystery solving, coming of age adventures that involve a clash of the mundane and the supernatural"

EDIT: I went full conspiracy board mode

#is this anything #this is just a snippet of my whirlwind thoughts on this topic #I was always sad as a kid that I couldn't fully engage with the mystery kids crossover fandom #because I'd never watched Coraline or played Psychonauts #but was a HUGE fan of Gravity Falls and ParaNorman (and others like otgw and invader zim) #and my longtime passion project story Turned Yesterday is essentially my own take on that sort of genre #gravity falls #coraline #psychonauts #paranorman #and loads of others #mystery kids #EDIT: accidentally posted the wrong version of that last chart SDHTGRFSED it makes more sense now sorry

[defectivehero]

Please write about a nb hero who is big on "not owing anyone money" and "its my problem and weight, let me carry it" and "please let me pay u back" and "its your money even if you spend it on me"

And a nb snarky millionaire (by evil methods) villain who is obsessed with their hero and is like "let me spoil u bbg" and *casually throws money around for hero* and very big on "I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR U" but hero is too fucking dense to actually believe rhe villain.

this snippet completely spiraled out of my control (as most things do).

It all started with that damned news article. In hindsight, perhaps the hero shouldn't have been as forthcoming as they were. But, they wanted the world to know that the life of a hero wasn't always glamorous. They just... didn't expect for the journalist to capitalize on the single remark they made, the single huff of laughter they let out when asked about the wages. Days later, when the article released, the hero was stunned.

Heroism: A Thankless Job

The hero remembers the dread coiling in their chest as they opened the newspaper to find the article, apprehension increasing as they digested the information. That picture of their apartment complex... they don't remember consenting to release that information. Granted, the journalist kept them as a nameless, anonymous hero. But, it wouldn't take a huge leap in logic to connect the dots—to find the building's tenants and cross-reference those names with the hero agencies nearby. The hero just hoped an average reader wouldn't take the incentive to do something like that. They spent the rest of that day struggling to keep their paranoia at bay. It took them a while to fall asleep that night.

Fortunately, they slept well and their anxieties seemed to fade. The hero stumbled through their morning routine and opened their front door an hour later, ready to greet the day, only to nearly trip on a package. They had frowned and taken the package inside, unable to shake the recognition that they hadn't ordered anything to be delivered. Upon opening the package, they found a single unmarked envelope. Their jaw had dropped to the floor once they found the bills inside—an amount more than their typical paychecks.

Little did the hero know, this would be far from the last time they received an unmarked package with a far too generous, entirely unexplained gift inside. At first, the gifts were just small things: a collection of medical grade bandages and antiseptic, a new sweater after they spilled coffee on theirs at work, a care package with things like cough medicine and tissues that appeared the day they got sick. The hero was still profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of some mysterious benefactor providing them with these things, but at least the packages were small. The magnitude of the first gift hadn't been matched since, and the hero couldn't help but feel grateful.

Amidst their hero work and their daily life, the hero found their mind quickly returning to the question of their gift-giver's identity. It had to be someone they interacted with fairly often, considering the far too accurate timing of several of the gifts. One time could be dismissed as a mere coincidence; a box of cough medicine a mere hour after they found themself bedridden, however... That is an entirely different story.

The gifts continue, but, thankfully, they are small in scale. The hero still feels horribly guilty about being entirely unable to pay this person back, but there's almost nothing they can do. Their benefactor clearly doesn't want to make themself known, and that's fine. Really, it is.

Until there is another envelope. This time, their mystery patron doesn't bother concealing their gift within a package. Instead, the hero opens their mailbox to find an unmarked burgundy envelope. Dread coiling in their chest, they look around—foolishly hoping that their gift giver would somehow have a change of heart and decide to show themself—before heading back inside. The hero sits on their sofa and takes a deep breath, before opening the envelope with care.

What they see is enough to make their hands tremble and their grip falter, allowing the envelope to slip down to the floor. They hold their present in disbelief.

It's a check—for more money than they could possibly fathom having. This sum is so large that the hero wouldn't have to work another day in their life. They would be able to live comfortably without earning so much as a single penny on their own.

The thought sickens them. "I can't accept this," the hero breathes aloud. They look down at their apartment's hardwood flooring as if it will give them the answers they're looking for.

"I don't recall asking you to." The hero jumps, looking up to find the villain standing before them. How they got there, the hero doesn't have the faintest idea. They blink at them for a moment, wondering how they didn't connect the mysterious gifts to the villain sooner. Their enemy has always had access to extremely high-tech weaponry and state of the art medicine (judging from their utter lack of scars despite their numerous fights); not to mention, they've had an inexplicable disregard for finances for as long as the hero can remember. It's all beginning to make sense now.

The villain takes a step closer and the hero remembers their remark. "I'm serious," they say with a frown. "Why are you doing this? Do you want me to owe you? ...Is that what this is? Want to, I don't know, kick me while I'm down? You're such a good person, helping the needy." The latter statement is spoken with venom.

"No, of course not," The villain argues.

"Then why?" The hero repeats, the volume of their voice rising as they get more frustrated. They take a deep breath and clench their fist at their side. They're still holding the check in their other hand, and despite the fact that it's nearly weightless, they can feel a pressure pushing their hand down. "And, more importantly, how in the hell did you get this much money?" The hero hears themself ask.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," the villain says lightly. There's a darkness to their eyes that suggests the hero should cease this line of questioning. They take another deep breath.

"You're assuming I'll just... accept this," the hero realizes aloud. That familiar itching feeling is rising to meet their skin, and they're becoming less convinced that they should stop it.

"Perhaps."

The hero blinks at them once, twice. The villain refuses to break eye contact; their gaze almost urging them to do it—to use their powers to turn the check to ash. The hero gives into the flames prickling along their skin and summons their fire in the palm of their hand. It will only take a moment, maybe two, for the bottom of the paper to char. From there, it will only be a matter of time. The hero watches in anticipation.

...But nothing happens.

"Did you really think I'd be foolish enough to give you a check you could just burst into flame?"

The hero stares ahead blankly, their ears ringing. The villain's expression blurs into a twisted smile. A figment of their imagination or reality? The hero hears their breaths, ragged and half-panicked in their ears.

"I don't understand," the hero repeats hollowly. They don't understand anything that's happening—anything that happened that led them to this very moment, standing before the villain and holding a check that their enemy gave them.

"You don't have to understand," the villain says, crossing their arms over their chest. "I'm not asking you to understand. Hell, I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm ordering you to cash this check."

The hero's tongue is ironed to the roof of their mouth. Even if they desired to speak, they don't think they'd be able to.

The villain notices their speechlessness and sighs. "I didn't want things to come to this, but..." They break off. "As I predicted, you're stubborn as hell, and self-sacrificing to a fault." The hero doesn't have the energy to be offended or outraged.

"So," the villain drawls, their arm falling to their side quickly. The hero blinks and they're suddenly being held at gunpoint. "Go to your bank. Now." The hero suspects the weapon is more than a gun—and they don't care to find out just what it can do. It appears they really have no choice. The villain is forcing their hand.

An hour later, the hero is walking out of the bank with sunken shoulders. "There," the villain says, clapping a hand on their shoulder and leading them out of the building. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Upon closer examination, the villain's weapon is nowhere in sight—as if it simply vanished in thin air. The unlikely pair walks down the street and heads back to the hero's car. The hero ignores the domesticity of it all, securing their seatbelt over themself. The villain doesn't seem keen to wear their seatbelt, so the hero reaches across and buckles their rival's seatbelt for them before they can object.

"I'll transfer the money back to you tomorrow," the hero announces as they're driving down the street, back towards their apartment. Their eyes are locked on the road, yet they somehow know that the villain's gaze is fixated on them with frightening focus.

"We both know you won't," the villain hums with certainty. The hero hates that they're right, hates that their rival can read them so damn easily. Their hands tighten around the steering wheel and the rest of the ride is suffocated with a horrible silence.

When the hero arrives back home, they can't shake the realization that the villain seems deeply pleased. They say as much to their enemy, who hums.

"Of course I'm pleased," the villain says, "If I knew this was all it would take to get you to accept a much-needed gift, I would've done it eons ago."

The hero takes a deep breath, struggling not to cry. It's been a long day, and they're reaching their limit. "I think you've humiliated me enough today," they announce. "Can you leave?" Please, the hero thinks to themself.

"I suppose," the villain sighs dramatically. They take one step to the door, then another. Just before their hand can clasp the doorknob, the hero feels one last objection fall from their lips.

"That money could go to far more deserving people and causes," the hero chokes out. They're choking on their own pride, choking on the simultaneous acknowledgment that they need money and the horrible knowledge that almost no one in their situation has an out like the one they were just presented with.

The villain turns around to face them, clearly moments away from rolling their eyes. "Do I look like a philanthropist to you?" The hero shakes their head, their throat burning. Their enemy nods in confirmation and turns back around. They twist the doorknob and tug the door open.

"You deserve nice things, you know." The villain's parting remark is murmured so quietly that the hero convinces themself they imagine it. The hero watches their front door close and waits a few moments before locking it. They turn around, their back to the door, and slide down to the ground with their head in their hands.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

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#defectivehero #hero x villain #heroes and villains #millionaire villain #poor hero is going through it #and the villain is there the entire time #yikes #angst #hurt/comfort #sort of but not really #emotional whump #yeah sure we'll call it that #writing #writeblr #short fic #snippet #writers on tumblr #spilled ink

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Goofy and erratic villian with an exasperated and somewhat uptight hero who has a crush on the villain? Maybe the villain says something vaguely flirty on accident and the hero has to pretend they don’t like it (and fails miserably)

“Come on.” The villain grabbed the hero’s hands and pulled them towards the dance floor. Eyes glinting, excitement filled up the villain. “Fight me.”

Utterly unimpressed, the hero just rolled their eyes.

“No interest.”

“That’s not very diplomatic of you. Refusing the enemy’s suggestion to resolve our issues? Come on, it’ll be fun. Just a little bit of combat.” They pulled the hero close, grip tight around them as they led the hero through the song. “Or are you scared?”

“We’re calling combat ‘resolving issues’ now?” Their eyes went through the crowd, concentrating. Professional. Obviously, the hero didn’t have time for their nemesis but the villain didn’t care.

At this point, they took whatever fell into their hands. The hero was a master at hiding, at avoiding people and the villain was not going to let them slip through their fingers that easily.

“It’s like couples therapy for crazy people, don’t you think?” the villain asked. They tried to redirect the hero every time they spotted the supervillain among the many millionaires.

Admittedly, the villain had been on their hands and knees when they’d discovered that the hero was going to be here. They’d begged the supervillain to take them with them and thank god, the villain had been assigned to distract the hero.

It was their favourite activity.

“I can’t argue with that, I suppose.” The hero shrugged. “I am not interested in making a scene, though.”

“But it’s so much fun...” Again, the villain pulled them closer, staring through half-lidded eyes at that heroic face.

One time, the hero’s hard shell had cracked in front of the villain. Ever since, the villain tried to crack it again, not because they wanted to torment the hero but because they needed the hero to know that being imperfect and vulnerable was normal.

The hero forgot that they were human sometimes.

“You’re aware that I am going to crush you like a beetle, right?”

And the villain had seen other people lose their mind to that.

“Oh, I’d love that, baby,” the villain answered. The hero’s face remained emotionless.

“If you think that you can distract me with your cheap tricks, then you’re blithely unaware of the fact that I am the best in this business.”

The hero tried to get out of the villain’s grip but the villain knew the supervillain wasn’t done with their investigation yet. So, the villain had to get creative.

“I know you’re the best, that’s why I want to fight you again. Gives me a kick.” The villain brushed the hero’s ear with their lips. “It feels good.”

“Ugh, you’re annoying.” The hero grabbed the villain’s jaw and turned their head away from them. The villain had to giggle at that.

However. The villain also caught a glimpse of their red ears.

The hero was embarrassed.

“Come on, grumpy…you love me.” They couldn’t help but smirk. Annoying the hero was a hobby the villain would never be able to let go of. Sometimes, they committed a crime just for the hero to show up.

“I’m wasting my time with you.”

Unfortunately, the villain spotted their superior. Giving them a sign to go back to the lair.

“You mean you’re having fun,” they mumbled.

The hero was quiet and looked (as usual) quite dissatisfied as they let the villain guide them. They didn’t seem to be passionate about dancing at all. They didn’t seem to loathe it, either.

“Let me invite you on a date, then. You. Me. Tomorrow. Bring your best weapon,” the villain said. They squeezed the hero’s hip, making the other’s eyes widen and somehow, the hero seemed much more human with their red face and their avoidant gaze.

Almost as if they did like the villain after all.

The villain could live with that, though.

#man I don’t know #You’re also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002 Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns and then I think it was #Yves Saint Laurent wasn’t it? who showed cerulean military jackets…I think we need a jacket here. and then cerulean quickly showed up #in the collection of 8 different designers. then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled down into some tragic #casual corner where you no doubt fished it out of some clearance bin #however that blue represents millions of dollars of countless jobs and it’s sort of comical how you think you’ve made a choice that #exempts you from the fashion industry when in fact you’re wearing a sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room #from a pile of ‘stuff’ #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - The Kneeling Stuff

Supervillain smiled when Hero was brought before him, his hands tied behind his back. That wasn’t necessary, of course. The small, thin frame of his foe was already surrounded by two of his biggest guards. There was no way of escape. On his iron throne, he slightly shifted his position and only said:

“Kneel.”

He expected – perhaps even hoped – protestations and words of defiance. There was none. Hero obeyed, his eyes fixed on him. Seeing that he was doing it without reluctance, the guards took their places back from each side of the throne. Three pairs of eyes stared at the captive. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or anger in his expression. As far as Supervillain could judge, there was nothing but polite curiosity, and maybe a bit of confusion.

“I don’t get it”, the prisoner said after a while.

“What are you talking about ?”

“The kneeling stuff. I mean, I love to sit after I’ve been beaten up, thank you, but I don’t see what the big deal is. You said it like it was big deal. Is that some kind of trap ?”

“Wh-”

“I mean, I can sit in many ways. I can even be cross-legged if you enjoy it that much.”

Supervillain shrugged to hide his own perplexity.

“Is that the right time to be insolent, according to you ?”

Embarrassed, Hero fidgeted a little despite his bound hands and gave him a pleading look.

“I swear I’m not trying to. I just feel like I’m missing something. I’m new at this business, you know.”

Supervillain pinched the bridge of his nose:

“Honestly, the things you have to teach. Kneeling means you recognize your defeat and you’re offering yourself to me.”

“Offering myself ? Like a date ?”

“No, not like a date !” squeaked the villain. “Who says things like - ? Like – like a prisoner ! Or a slave, if you like. That means you’re inferior to me.”

“Because you’re higher than me ?”

“Exactly ! Finally.”

“Nope, still don’t get it.”

Hero looked at the guards by his side:

“They stand up, and they’re tall ladies. They’re way higher than you. By that logic, that should mean they’re your boss, then.”

“No ! They – they’re doing my work ! Look, making your foes kneel is traditional. It’s nice. I like it. Can we leave it at that ?”

“But the thing is, I don’t feel inferior. It’s literally the way I sit at home. So, I don’t understand why it’s so much more humiliating than sitting on a throne that looks incredibly uncomfortable.”

Aggravated, Supervillain jumped on his feet. His fingers ensnared Hero’s chin as he growled:

“Don’t worry, I can do so much worse. The torture I’m going to put you through won’t give you any doubt about that.”

“About kneeling ?”

“No – I mean yes I suppose among other things but -”

“I don’t think that will make me understand. I can suggest another way.”

Metal cracked. Hero shyly made his fingers glide over Supervillain’s wrist that still held his face:

“You should show me instead.”

Supervillain had only one second to realize that Hero’s hands were mysteriously free. His first impulse was to call his guards for help, but the two ladies didn’t seem to hear him. Staring at Hero, they didn’t move an inch. Hero smiled, revealing his long, sharp teeth:

“Kneel.”

The world shifted. Unable to resist this voice, Supervillain's legs buckled while Hero stood up, his pale face still calm and slightly curious:

“You know, maybe you were right on something. I don’t care about the position, but seeing someone squirm is nice every time. Now then.”

He tilted his head and shyly smiled at Supervillain’s livid face:

“Tell me, what’s your opinion on stepping on your foes ?”

*

Vampire Hero is now a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to the Hero x Villain Masterlist.

#hero x villain #villain and hero #hero villain community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #my writing #writing snippet #writing drabble #writing dialogue #vampire #sort of #sure #vampire hero #hero and villain #heroes and villains #just a quick one #anyway kneeling is better than chairs I will comfortably sit on that hill

[prince-liest]

This one's for half moon anon, who inadvertently helped me figure out exactly how I wanted to write this scene.

#personal #writing snippets #nsft #vox #alastor #hazbin hotel #radiostatic #angst #idk how else to tag this tbh I feel like it warrants a warning of some sort but idk what kind #the phrasing here is v similar to what i used elsewhere so it'll be edited but these snippets are all first drafts

[green-eyedfirework]

He didn’t know what possessed him to blurt it out, but the words spilled from his lips, “You’re attracted to me.”

The cold blue eye flicked up, and then back down at the book.  “You’re attractive.”

A frustratingly typical non-committal answer.

“You know what I mean,” Dick snapped, releasing his stretch and pushing up on his knees.  Slade didn’t look at him, not even when Dick loomed above him.  “Slade.”

“What are you fishing for?” Slade asked, still intent on his book.

“You said—you told them,” Dick started, and stopped.  He remembered the day they’d come into the cell, and the way Slade casually talked about him like he wasn’t right there—“You told them you wanted me.  It’s true.  You do want me.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere, kid?”

“You don’t—” Dick didn’t know how to make the right words come out.  Slade was staring at him now, attention off the book, and even if Dick shut up, he knew that the older man would tuck the memory of his flustration away.  “If you really wanted me, you’d fuck me more often,” Dick said bluntly.

Slade’s eye narrowed.  “Do you want me to fuck you more often?” he asked blandly, and Dick immediately snarled.  “Don’t give me that, kid.  You’re the one who started this conversation.”

Dick breathed, in and out, and resisted the urge to try and punch Slade.  He wouldn’t succeed anyway, collar or not.

“Why don’t you fuck me more often?”  The question was quieter than Dick intended, though at least he hid the rawness.  If Slade was a monster, it would’ve been easier to endure.  If he was the manipulative jackass Dick knew he was, taking advantage of the opportunity of Nightwing at his feet, Dick could understand.  But Slade kept the fucks almost military-precise, like they were just another thing to check off his schedule.  Meals, shower, training, and every other day, fuck Nightwing.

Slade’s face tightened, and Dick prepared himself for another sarcastic non-answer, but Slade just turned back to his book.  “Because being forced to put on a show is not my idea of a good time.”

Dick made a high, unamused laugh.  “I didn’t realize my consent mattered to you so much.”

“I wasn’t,” Slade said evenly, “Talking about you.”

Dick stilled.  Something hot was burning in his stomach, tight and furious.  “Not enjoying yourself?” Dick asked, his tone dark and poisonous, “Not getting off to dominating me—oh wait, you are.  I have proof of that.”

“I mastered control of my body a long time ago,” Slade said, disinterested again, and Dick’s fingers itched with the desire to reach out and claw out his remaining eye.

“Do you really expect me to believe that this isn’t entertaining for you?” Dick spit out.

“I like a challenge,” Slade said levelly, not looking up at him, “I like a fight.  Fucking someone who’s limp and sobbing is unappealing.”  His tone took a harder edge, “One of us is wearing the collar, kid, and it isn’t you.”

That hit more painfully than if Slade had reached out and slapped him.  “Why do you fuck me if you hate it so much, then?” Dick hissed.

“Why do you let me fuck you if you hate it so much?” Slade turned the question back onto him.  Let me fuck you.  Jesus fucking Christ.  Like Dick had a fucking choice.

His fingers curled into fists as his heartbeat throbbed angrily in his skull.  “The choice is rape or death,” he said more evenly than he felt.

Slade tilted his head, as if to say ‘there you have it’.

“You won’t die if you don’t fuck me,” Dick snarled.

“No,” Slade looked up at him, ice blue eye pinning him in place, “But you will.”

~#~

Dick opened his eyes to meet an icy blue one, the one he’d been dreaming of in the stupor exhaustion dragged him into, more sticky and draining than actual sleep.  The only thing he dreamed of, because all the others were too implausible in this hellhole, unable to coalesce even in his imagination, but this was close enough to hope for.

Slade would not come, would not protect him, would not help—

“Robin,” cracked past bloody, crusted lips, a rasp of a whisper that Dick forced out.

But he might kill him.

Dick didn’t want to die.  He wanted to go home, back to his family, back to his life, but he was dying anyway, and he preferred Slade’s instantaneous option over being raped and torn apart, again and again and again until his body just gave up.

In his dreams, Slade always agreed.  He looked angry or gentle or blank, but he cupped Dick’s face in his hands and jerked—and then Dick woke back up to his hell.

This time, Slade hesitated.  He blinked in what looked like shock, before it flickered through upset and hardened into grim determination.  “Okay, little bird,” he murmured, oh-so-soft, and one forearm braced against his shoulders, not cupping his face, and the other fit around his jaw.

Wait a minute.

Dick squinted at this uncharacteristic change, why—Slade’s face was splattered with blood, and gaunter than he remembered.

Fingers tensed on his jaw.

“Stop,” burst forth, his heart suddenly hammering as he raised a shaky hand to grab Slade’s arm.  “Stop, no, Slade, don’t.”

Slade relinquished him easily, and Dick propped himself up on an elbow and tried to blink the exhaustion from his eyes.

The room was a bloodbath.  Most of it was concentrated near the open door, the bodies outside, but there was also a spreading stain on the bed, where Adams’ mutilated corpse was strewn over the sheets.

Freshly mutilated, because Adams had definitely used him just hours before, and yet he was dead and Slade was covered in blood.

Dick snapped his gaze back to Slade, who had retreated a couple of steps, watching him silently.  The sling was gone, the broken cheekbone healed, all the injuries vanished like they’d never been there, but there was something broken in his expression, and Dick didn’t know what it was.

He did know one thing.

“You came,” Dick choked past the growing lump in his throat, struggling to straighten upright with weak, spasming arms.  He hadn’t dreamed—sparing his life the first time had been a whim, but this—this destruction Slade had wrecked to get Dick back—

Dick was all out of tears, but the harsh gasps shuddering through him were the closest equivalent of sobs his battered body could manage.  “You came,” he whispered again, reaching out a trembling hand, and Slade closed the distance between them and allowed Dick to tighten a hand in his shirt as he slowly, carefully, gently picked him up.

Dick wanted to tell him it didn’t matter.  Every part of Dick ached and burned, Slade’s care wouldn’t make a difference.  But he just buried his face against Slade’s shirt and held on tight.

~#~

Dick never left Slade’s reach.

At first, he was injured enough that it wasn’t apparent, Slade hovering solicitously over him as he recovered his strength, bit by bit, spooning soup into his mouth, practically carrying him to the bathroom, dressing his injuries.  Soon, Dick had enough strength to be able to walk shakily to the far wall and back, though he frequently had to pause along the way.

Before, he would’ve taken the opportunity to sit in the far corner, as far away from Slade as he could get, back turned to show his visible displeasure.  Even later, when the days settled into a rhythm, Dick grew more comfortable with the space but still kept away, anger churning inside of him after each of their public fights.

Now, he stayed on the bed, Slade in sight if Dick wasn’t already pressed against him, and Slade escorted him to the bathroom for every trip.  The handful of times Slade had gone to the training arena, Dick had sat on the nearest bench and kept his white-knuckled grip on the wood, barely even daring to blink.

Every time he did, every time he looked away, he remembered the door buzzing open, too many hands overwhelming him, fighting punished painfully, the high, shrieking thought that if Slade had been there, Dick would’ve never gotten hurt.  It made his breaths run fast and high, his chest squeeze painfully, and his heart pound in his ears as terror blanketed him.

He knew it wasn’t healthy, knew that Slade wasn’t his white knight, wasn’t even a good person, that the man had stained his hands with more blood than anyone he faced in the arena, but to Dick’s traumatized senses, he registered as safe.

Slade’s patience with Dick’s clinging, however, finally ran out.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Dick said quietly, his gaze focused on the strings he was weaving together.  Red and black.  Maybe he could impress Jason with his bracelet-making skills when he got out.

“So go,” Slade rumbled from beside him, “You don’t need me holding your hand anymore.”

The strings fell through suddenly trembling fingers.  Dick looked up, and Slade turned to look down at him, raising an eyebrow.

He wasn’t breathing too fast, wasn’t shaking, but Slade must’ve seen something on his face because he lowered the book to look at Dick properly.  “I’ve gone over every inch of that bathroom,” he said, calm and even, “No one can get out, much less in.”

That...was true.  The ensuite had only one door, and no windows.  Slade would stop anyone who tried to enter the cell.  Dick was as safe as he could get.

His throat was still locked up.  He didn’t know why.  He stared up at Slade, mute, pleading for something he didn’t understand, and Slade’s expression roiled before it settled to a fractured blankness.

“I can’t protect you, kid,” Slade said quietly, and it sounded like it hurt him to admit it.

Not like this, his furrowed brow told him.  Not with a collar around his neck, suppressing the meta powers that made him one of the deadliest people on Earth.  Not locked inside a fighting ring used for someone’s sick entertainment.  Dick had gotten a crash course in the fact that Slade wasn’t invincible and couldn’t be everywhere.

Dick’s eyes were beginning to prickle.

Slade sighed, and closed his book.  “Fine,” he grumbled, getting off the bed, “Let’s go.”

~#~

“Did you get injured worse in that last match?” Dick asked, curled up in Slade’s arms and still coming down from the panic attack he’d gotten when the door buzzed open to admit Slade post his infirmary check-up.

Slade healed ridiculously fast, Dick couldn’t think of any injury that would’ve kept him out for days, and yet he hadn’t been there when Adams and the others had come prowling.

“They kept my collar on,” Slade replied, his tone terse.

Dick twisted to look up at Slade.  “What?”

Deathstroke was one of their most valuable fighters, a great draw for spectators, and they usually took off his collar—while he was completely drugged up—to allow him to rapidly heal any injuries he got.  It was one of the main points of vulnerability that existed in the whole set-up, and if Dick could just figure out how to use it, they’d be free.

There were very few problems that couldn’t be solved by pointing a determined Deathstroke in its direction.

It was also unfortunately the reason Slade stuck to his no-holds-barred fighting style, willing to tank attacks to keep on the offensive, and some part of Dick went cold as he remembered how easily the cell door had opened.

Like someone had unlocked it.

“They did it on purpose,” Dick said distantly, his grip tightening on Slade, “They—me—they did it on purpose.  Why?”

“Could be several reasons,” Slade said levelly, and he maneuvered Dick until he was curled up more tightly in Slade’s lap.  “They wanted to get back at me, put me in my place, remind me that I’m not in charge.”

Well, that backfired spectacularly, then, every single one of their fighters was now utterly terrified of Slade.

“Or they could’ve despised you.  Thought that you were too unbroken.”

Partially succeeded on that account.  All it took was a goddamn door opening to send Dick into a panic attack.

“Or,” Slade said quietly, “The ones that fancy themselves as intelligent, they probably wanted to see what I’d do.”

How Slade would act, to come back and discover that his plaything had been stolen.  How attached he was to Dick.  Possessiveness didn’t equal protectiveness, after all, and Dick had the sinking feeling that they revealed too much with Slade’s rescue and care.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Dick whispered, “That they’re studying your actions?”  That they know they can use me against you?

“No,” was the casual response, “Because I’ll kill them all.”  A callused thumb brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen into Dick’s face.  “The cleverer ones would’ve argued against provoking me at all.”

Dick could’ve said something, about murder and justice and one not equating the other.  He didn’t.

Justice—trials and laws and enforcement—was the privilege of a civilized society.  The arena didn’t meet the list of requirements.

“And the cleverest ones?” Dick asked, resting his head against Slade’s chest, “What did they do?”

“Run,” Slade murmured, “The moment they saw me in the arena.”

#my snippets #sladick #captivity au #gladiator au #they're both captured by *handwaves* in some sort of alien gladiator circle #fuck or die #protective slade #suicidal ideation #these are snippets from different parts of the story

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

In the House of the Golden Flower, there is a small falls that juts out of a crack along the mountains surrounding the hidden city.

Upon one of the larger rocks beside the pool sits Glorfindel, sketching, as he sometimes would, and this is how Ecthelion finds him.

"Who is that?" he asks, peeking over Glorfindel’s shoulder.

Glorfindel, far too used to his friend coming and going in his house unannounced, paused for but a moment to acknowledge the other's presence before continuing with his delicate task.

The face on the page is no one Ecthelion knows. He is an Elf, that much is clear, with dark hair, an intelligent face, and the most piercing eyes Ecthelion has ever seen. Ecthelion prides himself in knowing the ins and outs of Gondolin, for he values no task above the protection of their hidden valley. He is therefore certain that this Elf is not one of theirs.

"I met him in a dream," says Glorfindel. His charcoal tip tenderly traces the outline of a cheekbone.

“I see.”

Ecthelion makes himself comfortable, sitting beside Glorfindel as he nudges the other with a teasing elbow. “Is this how the people of Gondolin are put out of their misery? Our most eligible bachelor finally caught—and right under our very noses! In a dream!”

Glorfindel snorts. “Stop it. I am hardly the most eligible when you are also yet to marry.”

“You are right; we must therefore keep your newly found unavailability a secret, lest they remember to think about me.”

Glorfindel fondly shakes his head.

More seriously this time, Ecthelion asks, "What is he like?"

His friend thinks for a moment. "Intimidating."

"Intimidating like Maeglin at a party or intimidating like Egalmoth when asked a stupid question?"

"Intimidating like no one. I daresay he gives Egalmoth a run for his money."

“Huh. Didn't think you were into that."

Ecthelion watches the way his friend’s eyes go back to the page. He can hardly recognize Glorfindel like this, so long a brother-in-arms whom he never once saw regard another the way he is now regarding this mysterious dream Elf. But he is certain of the color on Glorfindel's cheeks, catches the nearly subtle way he bites his lip, a smile threatening to break.

Fondly, Glorfindel admits, "Neither did I."

#fic snippet #wip snippet #may as well share some snippets here when I struggle to finish fics 🥲 #sequel supposedly to A Place Between Time and Sorrow #where Ecthelion meets Erestor #sort of #Ecthelion stumbling on Glorestor os one of my favourite things now lol #Glorfindel #Ecthelion #Glorestor

[varpusvaras]

Seventeen really doesn't know what to think about Fox's new spouses.

They are...alright. That's the best word he can come up with, for now. They seem nice. Caring. Smart. Fox had mentioned them before, and always described them with good terms (which perhaps should've glued Seventeen in to the fact they were a thing. Fox had never been someone who would go out of his way to mention anyone just because), and the more Seventeen heard about them, the more he did appreciate them.

It just all felt fake, in a way. Not them, no. Seventeen had met enough nat-borns by now to recognise when they were being dishonest and smarmy. Not these two. Absolutely not. They were probably two of the most honest and open people Seventeen had ever met, which was also most likely one of the reasons Fox liked them. Fox had always liked it when things were said as they were. But just watching them, happy as they were, in their own little world where everything was fine and nothing else mattered, Seventeen couldn't shake the feeling of waiting for something, anything, to go wrong.

They weren't made for happy endings. Sooner or later something would happen, and ruin it all. They weren't made for soft things like this. They weren't made for things like love, not like this. Love for them meant training them, teaching them, pushing them forward and over their limits, so they wouldn't die.

That's what Seventeen had done.

It wasn't fair, some part of him screams. It wasn't fair that his love had been made to be bruises and broken bones and tears and anger, only for someone else to then come after all of it and claim that love was actually anything and everything else than that.

It wasn't fair.

#Seventeen is getting his own chapters down the line in the series #and he is having thoughts about things #he does like bail and breha okay #but it's a bit complicated #as is him becoming sort of grandpa later on and suddenly he has tiny beings that look like his cc's #but who he doesn't need to train and who look at him and only expect big hugs and things like that and nothing more #and he doesn't quite know what to do with it #alpha 17 #bail/breha/fox #commander fox #no order 66 au #Up that Mountain #snippets #my writing

[cthulhusstepmom]

Fae!Soap Superstitious Bastard! Ghost: Gifts

(Just a heads up this got way more intense than I meant it to but that’s kind of the Fae for you.)

TW: mentions of torture, human remains

Soap is a collector, though not of any one thing that Ghost can discern. He’s seen the man pick up anything from an abandoned rolex to a nondescript piece of broken glass. It doesn’t seem to be about size, it’s not shape and definitely not value; Ghost had thought he’d pinned it down as things that caught the light a certain way but was swiftly proven wrong when Soap went on a spree of collecting pebbles and sticks. He’d glared sullenly at the first jagged gray rock when Soap had picked it up before swiftly changing the subject when he was noticed. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to any of it… well not quite. There was one singular pattern that stood out in his mind, a single thread that held firm no matter how much he rearranged or plucked at it.

 Anything that Ghost gave him, Johnny kept. 

The first had been a bit of pretty blue ribbon that was a close enough approximation to Soap’s eyes. It’d snagged on a bramble bordering the clearing where Ghost had set up for overwatch. Without even thinking he’d snagged it on his way to RV down the hill, offering it to Johnny in the armored car taking them back to base. Soap hadn’t said a thing. It was then that Ghost realized maybe giving your subordinate a piece of trash you’d found in a bush perhaps wasn’t the most well adjusted way to express affection. He’d been about to play it off with a quip, beginning to retract his fingers ever so slightly, when Johnny snatched it lightning quick from the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest for a moment before stuffing it into his chest pocket next to his journal. Soap had given him a small strangled “Thank you” as they sat the rest of the ride in an awkward but warm silence. Johnny disappeared almost immediately after they got back to base but Ghost could see light in the space under his door so he wasn’t too worried that he’d done permanent damage to their relationship.

After that his eyes just seemed to catch on things that he assumed Johnny would like. He couldn’t help it. Little glass marbles, a river stone with an interesting marking, a large brown feather; Somehow it all made its way into the hands of his Sergeant. Usually with a gruff “Here”, barely waiting for Johnny to hold out his hands before he dropped his small offering into his gloved palms. Soap has also gotten over whatever his episode of silence had been, responding with a blinding smile and enthusiastic gratitude and a happy quip. (“Thanks Lt!” a piece of antler, Montana “Y’ shouldn’t have!” an old toy car, Finland “Find this on sale?” a scrap of pink fabric, Brazil “Ghost you’re spoiling me.” green river stone, India etc.(no he didn’t catalog all of them that would be creepy. He only wrote down his favorites.))

The next time Ghost thinks he’s permanently damaged their relationship and scared Soap off for good comes after an operation sweeping out an AQ base in Afghanistan. 

It’s stuffy and dark, the blistering heat of the day beginning to fade into the bitter chill of the night. The compound has long since been abandoned by all but the stubbornest of rats, slowly being reclaimed by the wild desert it carved its blackness into. They roll into the courtyard through the open front gate, the outer walls have seen multiple breacher charges and calling them walls at this point is more out of respect than any dedication to accuracy. The whole place has already been swept by drone and Laswell has had satellite eyes on it for months confirming just how fucking dead it is. They’re here for information, the drone identified documents left behind as well as at least two hard drives. 

The 141 has split off, each clearing their own section and radioing in at even intervals, they’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry. Beyond extra caution, the whole place has an eerie, black aura that drags forth memories of scorpion stings and dull knives biting at his flesh. Assisting in his nightmarish stroll down memory lane, Ghost is assigned the lower levels of the compound. Each room is another scene from a past he tries to forget, filled with rusted over implements of pain and brown stains no one cared to clean. 

Something in the last room makes him pause. 

A small barred window allows light from a waning moon to pool into the room, catching on something on the table. Small, most no bigger than his fingernail, a collection of about five objects sits in a tray on the corner of the table. Brilliant white patches shine in stark opposition to the bed of rust brown they lay on. 

Teeth. Human teeth.

His mind is acting on autopilot when grabs them and stuffs them in a pocket, so similar but so different to his first experience with the ribbon months ago. He finishes his sweep of the room, conveying his findings back on comms (“Seems like we’re late for the party.” “If only you didn’t take so long to get ready.”-Soap “Shut the fuck up the both of you I just saw a rat the size of a terrier.”-Gaz “I’ve got the hard drives if any of you fuckers remember why we’re here.”-Price), and turns back to rendezvous, his mind now firmly on finding his comrades and getting the hell out.

As they start readying themselves to duck into the humvees they arrived in, Ghost’s muscle memory kicks in to complete his self assigned mission objective. He turns to where Soap stands almost expectantly at his side. It’s not every mission that he has something he’s decided is a worthy offering but it has become more often than not. Mind already halfway back to base, a gloved hand chases down each tooth where they’ve burrowed themselves in the pocket of his tac vest, collecting them and dropping them in Soap’s proffered hand with a grunt. His brain turns back on when the bloody bones hit his Sergeant’s glove, panicking because what the fuck did he just do? What kind of fucking sociopath gives his friend(more?) human fucking teeth as a souvenir. Much less human fucking teeth that were pulled forcibly out of some poor bastard’s skull during a bygone torture session. 

His hand is trembling. 

Ghost forces himself to look down and meet Soap’s assuredly outraged and disgusted gaze. 

Only he doesn’t.

Johnny is staring down at the teeth in his palm with a look of fucking reverence. His pupils are dilated beyond just the darkness surrounding them and Ghost’s detail oriented eyes catch the slight flare of his nostrils on every inhale. Soap slowly tilts his head up to meet Ghost’s eyes and a gasp lives and dies in his throat.

“Oh Simon, you treat me so well.” His voice is gravelly and thrumming with an emotion that Ghost doesn’t know the name of. But, god if this is the look he gets after bringing Johnny desiccated human remains?

He’ll rip the teeth out of some unworthy son of a bitch himself.

#Soap may be the one who is inherently Other but Ghost is fucked up too #I adore deeeply fucked up Ghost™ #almost as much as soft Ghost #Soap is one lucky man #he's just sitting here happily obsessed with his human and then Ghost just up and gives him a courting gift #in folklore giving fairies gifts is a 50/50 chance to get them to go away #i however would like to introduce you to a secret third option: love #Also I'm like 60% certain I'm going to do sort of a mix of snippets here leading up to like a three shot culmination posted on Ao3 #would yall like that? would you prefer all on tumblr? do you even want story or just more little drabbles? #Fae!Soap #superstitious bastard!Ghost #cod mw2 #soapghost #tw torture #tw human dentition

[thepenultimateword]

Your stuff is so good!! You should write a villain x weapon designer civilian snippet :0

Thank you, thank you, friend! Also, I’m loving the idea of that dynamic, so here you go!

CW: Weapons, unconsciousness, knockout gas

...

“Move and I’ll blow your head off.”

The ridges on the gun's metal barrel dug sharply into Civilian's hand, but they managed to keep their aim and voice steady as they pointed both at the villain in front of them. The criminal was currently backed up against the train doors, hands in the air, gas mask dangling nonchalantly off two fingers.

The villain raised their brow. "What are you some sort of hero?"

"No talking."

"I've never seen you before. I thought I'd met all of the agency's sentinals in white. Though you're not exactly dressed for the position. Maybe you're not--"

"I said no talking!" Civilian barked, taking a step forward and jerking the gun forward menacingly.

"Ok! Ok!" Villain said. They raised their hands higher. “Touch-y.”

On any other day, Civilian would have been like the other passengers, huddled up together in the far corners of the train or pressed back tight in their seats, as if they could disappear by mere force of will. But today, Civilian had been tasked with transporting their newest prototype to the agency for a demonstration. An electro-pulse gun that they’d tested on no less than five watermelons the night before. They were well acquainted with the damage it could do. They’d ripped the thing from its protective case without even thinking.

“I’ve already alerted the heroes to your location,” Civilian said. “So there’s no point in fighting anymore. Stay still until the next station and you’ll be arrested in one piece.”

“You alerted the heroes?” The villain raised both brows high. “How? I jammed the cell signals over the next twenty miles. Unless…” They grinned. “You have some other form of contact. You do work for the agency, don’t you?”

“Have you listened to a thing I've said? No more questions!"

“You’re the one who keeps chatting, darling. What? Nervous?”

Yes. And no. Their body was alight with adrenaline, every nerve a buzzing, quivering charge, and yet at the same time, they were surreally confident, gut numb and mind blank.

Villain pushed lightly off the doors with their elbows, taking a small, probing step forward. “Would you even really shoot?”

“You really want to try me?"

“You heroes make a lot of talk but not much action. What, don’t you have a code? 'Do no harm' or something like that? Besides, you're so cute." Another step forward. "I don't think you've ever been in a fight, let alone killed someone, so why don't you just--"

Civilian aimed the gun at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger. The energy projectile punched through the metal with ear-splitting BANG! The passengers shrieked. Villain knocked back against the doors with a thud.

The wind whistled loudly overhead as the air whooshed over the new gap in the roof, and after that shot, their ears might as well have been stuffed full of cotton, but even if they couldn't quite measure their own volume, they fixed the gun back on Villain's head and drove their point home.

“I’m really trying not to traumatize all these lovely people with the visual of your head exploding, and honestly, I’d really rather not kill you. But if you press me…if you doubt me, you’ll be dead faster than you can question me again.”

Villain gripped their mask abit tighter but their expression remained smooth and their posture loose. They whistled a long low note. “You’re something else, gunslinger. When this is all over, feel free to look me up anytime.”

“Fortunately, I don’t frequent prisons.”

“Me neither." Villain flashed a broader grin, full of white teeth and pocked with a dimple on one side. "Looks like we have something in common.”

The train screeched, the deceleration sending everyone lurching a bit to the right. In that exact moment, when Civilian's gun swayed a few centimeters off target, the villain's free hand shot to their belt.

"Hey!" Civilian shouted, stumbling a little as the train came to a complete stop. Villain tossed something small and round to the floor. Ping! Ping! It bounced twice, rolled a little into the aisle, and exploded in a cloud of cool fog. No not fog. Gas.

Civilian immediately turned their face into their shoulder, tipping the gun even further off target. The whole train car shrieked while Villain calmly pulled the gas mask over their head, obscuring the beginnings of an infuriating grin. Civilian opened their mouth to launch another threat but immediately choked on the sickly sweet gas. It raised around them so rapidly, they could barely see the nose of the weapon let alone, Villain. Not to mention...everything was getting sorta...slanty...

"S-sleepin'gas?" they slurred.

"I was never here to harm any of you." Villain's muffled voice seemed to come from all directions, echoey and distorted.

Civilian fell to one knee. Was it normal to feel like their head was buzzing?

"You made a really cute gunslinger, though. Like a western sheriff. Or an outlaw. Bet you'd be good in a holdup."

The train doors hissed as they opened. As some of the gas slipped free, they caught a glimpse of the Villain's shoulder as they darted out onto the platform.

The gun suddenly felt so heavy in their arms but they forced it up anyway. The barrel tipped to and fro, and their finger trembled on the trigger. They wanted to risk a blind shot, but there could be dozens of people standing outside on that platform. If they hit anyone else...

Their vision blurred, then blackened. They barely managed to set the gun down on the metal floor before passing out over top of it.

When they awoke, they were in the agency medical wing. They recognized it immediately by its obnoxious orange bedsheets and, well, Keith. Sort of hard to miss a giant, shining man in hero-white scrubs.

Civilian slowly pushed themselves upright. Their head throbbed with the movement, and they let out a rogue groan.

Keith turned away from the figure two beds down, covered from head to toe in bruises and now enveloped in their own cocoon of white luminescence.

"Civilian!" Keith beamed, light glimmering off his teeth. "You've regained consciousness! Any pain?"

Civilian rubbed the bridge of their nose. "Just my head... Was I hurt?"

"Not necessarily." Keith pressed both large hands to the sides of Civilian's skull. Civilian closed their eyes as they healer's glow wrapped around their head. Warmth trickled over their face and under their skin, ebbing the pain away little by little. "Just a very large dose of some sort of gaseous anesthesia. Luckily, there have been no long-term consequences so far. The ventilation created by the hole in the roof probably lessened some of the potency. Your handiwork?"

The events on the train rushed back all at once. They pulled out of Keith's grasp.

"Did we get them?" They looked rapidly around their bedside. "Where's my pulse gun?"

Keith stepped back and leaned against the empty bed beside Civilian's. "The gun is in weapons testing, I think."

"And the villain?"

"No. They escaped. We arrived just moments too late before they must have blended with the crowd.

Civlian threw themself back against their pillows with a heavy sigh. "Great."

"You still helped. You stopped Villain from completing whatever they originally planned and provided many citizens with immediate medical treatment by calling us in."

"Oh yeeeeah, I'm sure the whole team was just dazzled by my competence and quick-thinking. Especially when I couldn't hold Villain in place on anything but a moving train."

Keith frowned. "You don't need the title to be a hero."

"Thanks, Keith, that's really nice and heartfelt, and I'm sure you believe it, but seeing how you do have the title, and no one in power here thinks the same, it doesn't really mean that much to me."

Keith frowned but luckily didn't argue any further. Civilian knew they were being rude, but they really didn't need anyone else telling them that they were special the way they were. That they could do good their own way. That being a hero didn't even matter that much. It mattered a whole lot to them. And now they'd practically proven the entire agency right.

"What were they even doing on that train?"

"Robbery?" Keith shrugged. "Knock out the passengers and loot all their valuables."

"Alone?" Civilian traced the lines of the ceiling panels with their eyes. "They didn't even have a bag. How much could they have gathered if they planned on knocking out an entire train?"

"We don't know they were alone. They could have easily had accomplices posing as civilians throughout the train."

"True... Does the agency have a file on them? Tall, skinny, long black coat, annoyingly perfect eyebrows. Didn't show a power."

"I could look...but I'm not supposed to share that sort of info outside of other heroes..."

"Come on! What was that whole, 'you don't need a title' nonsense?"

"It wasn't nonsense! You are a hero! Just...not a legally sanctioned one."

Civilian sat back up and lowered their voice. "Come on, Keith. I'm not going to do anything; I'm just curious. You don't even have to give me the whole file. Just take a couple pictures of anything you think might also be on the news."

Keith grimaced.

"Please? I was so close today. So close to being what I always planned to be... Just let me chase that high a little longer. Then I'll go back to the weapons lab and never mention it again. Promise."

Keith inhaled a long breath, letting it out in a loud, irritated sigh. "Ok, fine. But don't bring it up to anyone. Ever. And I'm only giving you the first page."

Civilian's insides sank a little; they weren't sure what a first page of a villain file looked like, but they could assume it wasn't much. But they couldn't really be picky, so... "That's fine. Just the first page is perfect."

Keith looked like they had hoped that detail would deter them, but he continued on. "It might take awhile. I'm a hero, but I'm a healer, so no one is expecting me to march into the files room and request info on villains."

"That's ok, I can be patient. I work in weapons, remember? That's like the ultimate test in being patient."

Keith slid a hand over his face. "Ok. I'm also going to need more detail than 'annoyingly perfect eyebrows.'"

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #creative writing #writing snippet #villain x civilian #writblr #snippet #villain #weapons maker #Also keith was the first name to come to mind #and i thought it was sort of funny for a scene transition #but I was stil thinking of hoodwinked the whole time #“oh watch out for keith”

[ettelenethelien]

If Silm characters had Tumblr blogs (Years of the Trees):

Galadriel:

url: flowers-glade

pfp: probably a cat picture

blog title: have a voice and won't hesitate to use it

bio: 240s * mixed heritage (all three<3) * disrespect any and I am not liable for the consequences * anti-fëanorian * involved in politics to a reasonable extent

blog is a mix of aesthetic/poetry/literary analysis, strongly-voiced political views (no, she's not 'reasonably' involved), and personal posts that sound a lot like bragging tbh

Maedhros:

url: 12russandol

pfp: a picrew

blog title: Even scholars have their doubts, even painters have their missteps

bio: eldest brother of seven • yes, my father's Fëanor • probably won't reply to any asks about family matters • busy existing

posts like once a month on a very varied array of subjects. always polite

Caranthir:

url: you-are-the-blood-in-my-veins

pfp: something with a dark background

blog title: I just f**ing hate this world

bio: You're not going to like me, but maybe you'll stay to watch the trainwreck

very emo about it, song lyrics and edits, cultivates a deliberately edgy persona (is not really like this irl). steers clear of politics

Finrod:

url: manifestations-sevenfold-daffodil (bastardisation of some hyper-complex philosophical term + something random added on for good measure; if you ask him about the meaning he won't shut up)

pfp: cartoonish snake on a green background with yellow flowers (suspicious similarity to the arafinwean badge)

blog title: Edginess kills

bio: We could also just get on well with eachother :)

posts once a few days, reblogs anything that catches his eye. has contributed to various heritage posts though he isn't tumblr famous, has the epitome of a tumblr sense of humour. rarely makes original posts that aren't about complex philosophical questions.

Bonus - Fëanor:

has no consistent url because he gets banned every two months and has to make a new blog. is a troll. gets into a vicious fight with galadriel every week, neither knowing it's the other. very occasionally posts something more wholesome about his family or craft, but it's rare in comparison.

#Fingon and Argon have very cladsic Tumblr blogs; sometimes wacky #most of the time good-natured and participating in discourse™ at whiles #Maglor has an 'official' blog under his own name where he sometimes posts snippets of songs but is rarely active on #Amrod and Amras also have contributed to some heritage posts; in addition they run a joint gimmick blog of some sort #...if you've had the misfortune to run into some variation of oxford-comma Fëanor is like *that* #(by which I mean not the grammatical feature but that reddit atheist that's found his way on tumblr. IYKYK) #huh #this was hard to write at times #especially the urls and titles because these are often pretty obscure references... please take them as more of a general vibe than my last #word on the matter #// #my post #tolkien #Silmarillion #silm #Galadriel #Finrod #Caranthir #Maedhros #Fëanor #to be cont? #character lists #modern au

[defectivehero]

The villain squints at the silhouette at the edge of the rooftop, before ascertaining that it's indeed the hero, their enemy. They take a step closer, wincing as the gravel beneath their feet makes a slight noise. With any luck, the hero didn't hear that. They take another step, only for the hero to laugh. It's a dry laugh—one devoid of any genuine humor.

"You caught me," the hero announces, placing their hands on the railing in front of them. Their back is turned, as if they're hiding their face. "I hoped no one would see me." Their enemy admits.

"What are you doing?" The villain feels the need to ask. Typically, they'd be fighting by now. But the hero doesn't seem to be in the fighting mood.

Their enemy takes a moment to respond. "Hanging up the cape, so to speak," they eventually answer. The villain's heart drops to their stomach.

"You're retiring?" They choke out. The hero doesn't utter a word of confirmation, but the villain is able to sense their resolve nonetheless. "Not of your own volition, surely," the villain remarks, squinting at their enemy's shadow. They must've been bribed, blackmailed-

But the hero is silent. There is an utter lack of objection, argument, anything to dissuade the villain from the grim reality staring them straight in the face. "Really?" They hear themself ask. "You're quitting? Just like that?"

"What, going to miss me?" The hero asks. "We could work something out-" The villain can envision the smile on the hero's face—playful but manufactured, amusement failing to reach their eyes.

"No, you're missing the point," the villain interjects. They can't seem to organize their thoughts. There's a terrible foreboding itching at their skin. "What happened to your mission?"

"My... mission," the hero echoes hollowly. They rub a hand over their face. Their enemy looks horribly mortal in that moment, their shoulders hunched and their posture crumpled.

"Don't tell me you can't remember," the villain says, resisting the urge to grab the hero's jaw and force them to turn to look at them. "Right the injustices of the world. Give people a better life than I had. Any of that ringing a bell?"

The hero's nose wrinkles. They're still staring out at the horizon, a distant gleam to their eyes. "My dreams were just that: dreams. Too lofty and optimistic to ever become reality."

Anger bubbles in the villain's chest, white-hot and fast as lightning. "How do you know?" They demand. "You didn't even try-"

"Didn't even try?" The hero snaps, finally turning around to look them in the eyes. The villain immediately regrets wishing to see the hero's expression, as they stare at the uncharacteristic rage and defeat written all over their enemy's face. "I can excuse everything else you've just said to me. But I tried. I fucking tried—more than you can possibly imagine."

The villain is struck silent. The hero takes a step closer, slowly breaking the distance between them. "Do you know how long I spent pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion and injury, just for the idealistic hope of change?" The hero continues, fury glittering in their eyes, "Do you have any idea how tiring it is to work every day of your fucking life for a system that doesn't give two shits about you?"

"I think we both know that I do," the villain finally chokes out, once their tongue no longer feels glued to the roof of their mouth. The hero's eyebrows furrow.

"No," they say with a shake of their head. Their enemy clenches their fists at their sides. The villain suddenly feels nervous, for reasons they can't quite explain. "You don't understand. You gave up." Dread prickles along the villain's skin as they comprehend what the hero just said. Perhaps the worst part of their accusation is that it's entirely true.

"Where you saw an insurmountable obstacle, I saw an opportunity," the hero continues, "I fucking tried. You didn't. You were content to drown in your hatred, to let your own selfishness override the fact that, out there, thousands of people are still experiencing exactly what we went through."

"So don't you ever say that to me," the hero hisses, pointing at the villain's chest. Their touch is light as a feather, yet the villain feels as if their enemy's finger is tearing through their flesh and bone. "Because I gave everything I had to this job. And the agency chewed me up and spit me right the fuck back out."

The hero's eyes are glassy, the villain realizes. Tears are falling down their enemy's face and they watch as the hero furiously wipes at their face with the back of their sleeve. They're beginning to realize why the hero hid their face at first—they were hiding the tear stains running down their cheeks.

The villain is at a loss for words. Truly, there is nothing they can say that will change the reality of the situation—nothing that will fix the horrible injustices and cruelties that lay the foundation for the very system the hero operated in for so long.

"So, yes, I'm quitting," the hero says, their voice raspy and cracked. A part of the villain's stone heart breaks at the devastated tone of their enemy's voice. "I'm done and, if I'm lucky, you will never see me again." Something akin to fear strikes at the villain's chest.

"I'll still find you," the villain maintains, their stomach turning as they try to imagine a world without the hero, a life without an enemy.

"And what will you do?" The hero hums. Their voice sounds empty; there is no sign of the unending determination that first drew the villain to them. "I won't fight you." They state.

"You don't need to," the villain tries.

But the hero simply shakes their head. "Goodbye," their enemy says instead, their visage fading as they disappear into the shadows. The villain stares at the space the hero had just occupied, wondering how it all could have fallen apart so quickly.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

MWAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHHHHHHHHH. ahahahahhahhahahhah. HAHAHAHAHHA. hahahaha.... ha.... ah.... ha.... heeheehee

happy ending? never heard of her! :3

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#defectivehero #whump #whumpee #whumper #sort of #angst #hurt/comfort #hurt no comfort #hero x villain #heroes and villains #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #short fic #snippet #guys im so so so happy with this piece #I love it so so so so much #so proud of it

[chaotic-orphan]

Febuwhump day One: helpless

Oh yeah we’re doing another prompt calendar!! My favourites, I write things I never usually do because there’s a time limit and it’s fun. This prompt was hard, but I tried B)

CW: strained family relationships, dysfunctional family, kidnapping (implied)

*~*~*~*~*

Henchman escorted Villain up the opera-like staircase of the mansion, all marble floors and Greek style pillars to hold up the second floor. The first time Villain saw it they marvelled at the sheer class of it all. Now though, it was nothing more than a means to an end, Villain could be walking through the mud for all they cared, their mind was on other matters.

Henchman opened the door and Villain stepped in. The door closed behind them and Villain didn’t stop walking until they were at the chairs in front of the large mahogany desk.

Supervillain had his back half turned, looking out the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“How nice to see you, Villain,” said Supervillain. He didn’t turn his head as he spoke, just continued to stare out the window into the world outside.

Villain clenched their jaw at his easy, blasé tone, but anger never got Villain anywhere, so they took a second to relax it before speaking.

“Hello Supervillain. Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Supervillain hummed in agreement.

“Harvest season is nearly upon us,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Villain. “Have you been keeping your garden well?”

“I’ve been a bit busy recently,” Villain replied, tone clipped. Far much harsher than they intended for it to come out.

Calm down Villain, they chastised. Clasping their hands behind their back to stop clenching them into fists. An obvious action, one Supervillain would no doubt see through, but it comforted Villain at least. They could pretend that they were hiding it from Supervillain.

Supervillain said, tilting their head down to look at their glass, swirling the honey coloured liquid inside gently, “yes, I’ve heard of your recent escapades. Not from you, of course.”

An obvious dig at Villain. Villain wanted to erupt then and there but they didn’t, they forced themselves to remain calm.

“You can’t seriously expect me to come visit anytime I have gossip,” Villain scoffed running a hand through their hair. “I mean, what with being searched and seized every time I come in here and escorted through the halls like some stranger! Only for you to not have the decency to even look at me when I speak to you.”

Supervillain stopped the motion, raising their head. The hairs on the back of Villain’s neck stood up at the easy movement and they realised they had gone too far too late.

Supervillain turned their body from the window to face Villain. Villain fought the urge to step back. Why should they? They said exactly what they thought, and it wasn’t their fault anyway. Supervillain was the one who brought it up, not them.

Villain’s hands tightened into fists behind their back.

“Sorry, Villain. You must understand, it is very hard for me to look at traitors.”

The word traitor hit them like a punch to the chest, winding them.

“What do you—”

“Don’t play stupid, Villain,” Supervillain said, tone even, as if he was still talking about the weather. “I raised you better than that.”

Villain clenched their jaw, locked their lips and turned their head away.

“You have been reckless, Villain. Running around the city, fraternising with Heroes. How do you think that makes me look? That my own child is blatantly disobeying me publicly?”

Villain didn’t reply.

Supervillain sighed. From the corner of their eye they could see Supervillain moving around their desk, the barrier between them, Villain’s safety net and coming to leaning on the front of it, arms folded over their chest.

“Can you blame me for having you searched when you come in? I don’t know where your loyalty lies anymore.”

“It—” Villain began in protest but that was all that fell from their lips. “I—” they tried again, but nothing. The truth was that Villain didn’t know anymore. They didn’t know something they used to be so sure of.

They were a Villain through and through three months ago. They were born to it, grew up in it, the heir to their father’s empire. They liked being a Villain, they liked scheming about how to subdue Heroes and intimidate juries and witnesses.

They were unequivocally a Villain three months ago.

Then Hero showed up and turned their entire world upside down.

These days Villain helped Hero with their problems and understanding the inner workings of Villains to properly subdue them.

Other Villains.

Never their father’s.

Never.

They weren’t a traitor.

Burning eyes met their father’s cool gaze. “I’m not a traitor,” they said, voice thick with emotion.

Supervillain pushed off the table and stood in front of Villain.

“I don’t know that, Villain. I only know what I’m told, by people I trust.”

“What right hand?!” Villain demanded, throwing their hand out in a wide gesture, so close to completely losing it.

“Why do you want me to trust you Villain, hmm? Is that it?” Supervillain demanded, fury resting just under the surface of their skin below the calm expression. Villain let out a soft tch before turning their head away again.

Supervillain said, “Villain look at me,” and so Villain did. Supervillain raised their fist and placed it over Villain’s chest. The shrewdness of his age shining sympathetic in his eyes.

“How can I trust you when you are so clearly at war with yourself, Villain?” Supervillain asked, voice soft. It nearly broke Villain.

Very nearly.

The soft voice almost felt familiar, like how Supervillain used to speak with them when Villain had failed something and was punishing themselves for it. If they got less than 90 in a test, if there was someone annoying them, when they failed a mission. More usually when they were late in the night, pouring over every plan, every minute detail, every possible scenario and cursing themselves because why didn’t they see it before?

The times when Supervillain would find them with a cup of tea and a soft, sympathetic smile much like their expression now, coaxing them to go back to bed. That they were being too hard on themselves.

Villain would protest. They would say that they refused to be caught unaware again, to be in a situation where they were stuck. So completely helpless.

They didn’t need to rely on anyone, they shouldn’t have to.

“I will always be here,” Supervillain would say. Then when Villain would stare back at their work, Supervillain would take the seat next to them and sit with them while they worked through the problem.

Sometimes Supervillain would be silent.

Other times he would vocalise the issues he saw with the plan in hindsight that couldn’t have been known before the day.

Villain would wake up in their chair. Supervillain snoring beside them, head resting on their chest.

Villain’s fingers clenched into fists, then unclenched and clenched again. They didn’t know what they should do… what side were they on?

“Let’s make it easier, Villain,” said Supervillain stepping back, dropping all contact from Villain. He slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, tilting his head at Villain. “Why did you come and see me today?”

“Because—” Villain said without thinking then stopped short.

Supervillain blinked. “Because?”

Because Hero’s missing, Villain didn’t say. And I’m worried you took them.

Supervillain was waiting patiently, though their eyes told Villain everything they needed to know. Business Supervillain was talking to them now, not their father. Which means…

Villain schooled their expression and said, “because you took Hero, and I’m here to get them back.”

The corner of Supervillain’s lips quirked up into a half smirk.

“So bold to assume, Villain.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Villain challenged, taking a step forward. “If you’ve done somethi—”

Supervillain held up a hand to silence them, and Villain hated the way they cut themselves off. Supervillain lowered his hand to the button on his desk that Villain knew went straight to Right Hand.

The door opened not a moment later and Villain didn’t have to turn to know Right Hand was at the door. The snivelling little runt.

“Right Hand, could you show Villain to our guest, please?” Supervillain asked, not breaking eye contact with Villain. “And if they try anything, throw them in beside them.”

“Of course, sir,” Right Hand replied, a smile in his voice. “With pleasure.”

Villain glared at their father who smiled in return.

“Why?”

Supervillain shrugged. “I wanted to meet the Hero who turned my own flesh and blood against me.”

“You met them, now let them go,” Villain said, taking another step closer.

Supervillain tilted his head. “Are you asking or demanding?”

“Whichever gets Hero free faster,” Villain replied.

Supervillain said nothing for a beat. Instead his eyes just searched Villain’s face, for what Villain didn’t know. Answers?

“If you behave, we can discuss Hero’s release over dinner.”

Villain wanted to protest. They wanted to scream and shout, and shove Right Hand down the stairs just because, but they couldn’t. They couldn’t do anything because their stupid gun and knife were taken off them when they arrived and were sitting safely out of their hands.

They hated to admit it, but without them… Right Hand could probably beat them in a fight. Maybe not a battle of wits, but a physical scuffle… Villain was well and truly helpless.

Villain didn’t reply. They turned on their heel and shoulder checked Right Hand on the way out the door, walking towards the cells themself. They didn’t need Right Hand to escort them, they never did before.

This was their fucking house.

All they needed to do was descend to the cells to find Hero — their home.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday1 #febuwhump1 #febuwhump helpless #is it Whump #sort of #if you squint #anyways #I had no idea what to do for this today #hopefully tomorrow will be better B) #i am tired #writblr #hero villain writing #hero villain snippet #hero villain story #hero #villain #writing #orphan writing #whump writing #orphan #complicated dynamics #complicated relationships #complicated family #dysfunctional family #strained family relationships #strained family #family Whump #helpless #emotional whump

[jessicas-pi]

Obi-Wan is Korkie's father.

Obi-Wan is there the evening Satine flings her blaster off the edge of a waterfall with a bloodcurdling scream, standing three paces behind her and one step to the side as tears stream down her face. She swears on the blood of every child from the village that was slaughtered for daring to hide her—the violence will end. He does not miss the way her arms wrap around her middle, or the sparks of secondary light that have been flickering within her for weeks, and he knows why she is making this vow.

-

Obi-Wan is there the morning Satine stumbles out of camp with a crash, barely making it to the bushes before vomiting out the contents of her stomach. He follows her and kneels at her side, rubbing soft circles along her back and soothing away the nausea with the Force as much as he can.

“I'm pregnant,” Satine whispers.

“I know,” Obi-Wan whispers back.

-

Obi-Wan is there when they are trekking mile after mile, following Master Qui-Gon's Force-guided lead. He lets Satine take his arm to support herself when she gets dizzy, and gently reminds his slightly scatterbrained Master of their ever-more-frequent needs to stop and rest for a moment.

-

Obi-Wan is there for Satine to argue with, when the pressures and fears get too much. They argue about politics and about economics and about color symbolism in traditional art and about whether or not "Korkie" is a ridiculous name. At the end of the day, it never means much, and it seems to fray at Master Qui-Gon's nerves, but on the days when Satine takes the bait and dives into the argument, she always seems to sleep better.

-

Obi-Wan is there the afternoon at the riverside when it is just the two of them, and she finally cracks, the whole story spilling out. All he can do is fold her up in his arms and let her rage into his chest.

-

Obi-Wan is there when Satine freezes mid-pace, eyes huge. He is about to ask what's wrong, and Master Qui-Gon is looking around, casting out with his presence to find any danger, but then Satine grabs him by the wrist, painfully tight, and presses his hand to her swollen belly to feel the baby kick.

-

Obi-Wan is there the day they stumble upon a nest of venom-mites, and Satine is several months too pregnant to run. He snatches her up in his arms and sprints, following hot on Master Qui-Gon's heels. They escape, but only after he trips and falls, dumping them both unceremoniously on the ground and leaving a nasty gash on her arm. Obi-Wan apologizes. Satine brushes him off and demands he help her up. Her temper has been growing with her stomach.

-

Obi-Wan is there the day Korkie is born. He and Master Qui-Gon sit with Satine, letting her squeeze their hands until Obi-Wan thinks his is going to break and trying to soothe her pain with the Force. She clenches her jaw and does not scream, not even once—the bounty hunters have been getting too close for comfort. They cannot give themselves away.

-

Obi-Wan is the one to put the whimpering baby into her arms, wrapping the child in his own cloak. Satine is ghastly pale and shaking and Master Qui-Gon has a look in his eyes that Obi-Wan cannot quite decipher. He wonders how much the older Jedi knows.

-

Obi-Wan is there on the sleepless nights, when the baby is crying out for attention, and he is the one to pick the wailing child up as often as Satine is, humming soft songs he remembers from his days in the creche.

-

Obi-Wan is there to sit in gentle silence with the young mother through the early hours of the morning, draping his cloak around her so she can nurse the hungry boy in whatever little privacy she can get. More than once, they doze off together with Korkie between them, quiet and happy.

-

“I'm going to raise him as my nephew,” Satine sniffs one night, when she is too tired and worn down to do anything but weep silently over everyone she has lost.

“Not as your son?”

She looks up at him with a sigh that is too exhaused to be a laugh. “I have spent months on the run with a red-haired, blue-eyed Jedi Padawan. Can you imagine the speculations?”

-

Obi-Wan is not there when Korkie, ten years old, asks Satine if she's really his mother, and she softly admits that she is. She tells him a few things—when he was born, some of the reasons why she raised him as her nephew—but it is not those things that he wants to know.

“What about my father?” he asks.

The man who shares Korkie's blood is long dead, killed in the war, and never worthy of being called a father in the first place.

But family is more than blood, and in Satine's heart, the truth is fixed and firm.

“He was a wonderful man.” Slowly, sadly, Satine smiles to herself, dropping a kiss on the boy's forehead. “I hope you can meet him, someday.”

Obi-Wan is Korkie's father.

#this emerged fully formed from my head like athena #idk i just think its an interesting concept #star wars #obi wan kenobi #satine kryze #qui gon jinn #obitine #korkie kryze #korkie kenobi #sort of #fic snippet #my fic

[monstrsball]

Iwaizumi doesn't know what to think when he finds his boyfriend in the entry way of their apartment, soaked from head to toe and clutching his jacket to his chest.

"I'm home." Suga says with a sheepish grin while he clumsily tries to get his shoes off without using his hands.

“You’re soaked,” Iwaizumi frowns, pushing his wet bangs back out of his face and eyeing the barely noticeable trembling of his shoulders. “Why aren’t you-”

Suga’s jacket meows.

Suga frowns down at the jacket in his arms. “You were supposed to let me do the talking first.” He says lightheartedly, his words are met with another slightly more indignant meow.

“Koushi, we talked about this.” Iwaizumi says.

“It’s raining, Hajime. The poor thing was soaked, I couldn’t just leave her out there.” Suga says, his tone soft. “Can we just keep her here for tonight? Until it stops raining? And then I’ll take her to the shelter.”

Iwaizumi wants to stand firm but his resolve slowly melts away when he looks at the cat again. She’s shivering just as much as Suga, the now soaked jacket likely not helping her keep warm. She’s nuzzling into his chest in search of warmth and it tugs at Iwaizumi’s heartstrings. 

He glances back at the door to the balcony. Still raining. 

“Okay,” Iwaizumi relents. “She can stay for tonight. Until it stops raining.” 

He has a nagging feeling that ‘for tonight’ is going to turn into indefinitely but the pure joy lighting up Suga’s face distracts him from this fleeting thought. 

“Yeah, yeah. You need to get out of those clothes.” Iwaizumi reaches out to take the cat from Suga’s arms. She's oddly compliant for a stray. “I’ll dry her off and get her some food and water. I think we have some canned tuna in the cabinet.”

“Ooh,” Suga whistles, gently depositing the little tabby into Iwaizumi’s open arms. “You hear that, baby? He’s spoiling you.” He coos. 

“It’s the only thing we have,” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, readjusting his grip once he has the cat safely in his arms. She nuzzles into the newfound warmth immediately.

#hi have this snippet from my drafts that was meant to be part of a longer fic but. im probably just gonna do it in little snippets now #iwaizumi and the cat he didn't want #<- tag for this saga #iwasuga #there was honestly more for this Initial night i wanted to write but i think i like it better like this? short and sweet... #even if it sort of feels incomplete? idk. #anyway stay tuned i will write more scenes for this. maybe #there is a Timeline here. of iwa warming up to the cat and loving her with all his heart #this cat is still unnamed i need to name her