#also title is kind of a working title

[souglias]

The Meeting of Two Monsters [Sougo]

Mafia!AU. Someone, who you come to realise later on is extremely powerful, bids for you at a black market auction

c/w: slavery (purchase at a black market auction, nothing else mentioned beyond that), sougo is sadistic and is up to the usual bullying he does in the anime (though arguably upped by a notch here), crude language

wc: 1.9k words

Okita Sougo x gn!reader

note: This is @username-janai-katsura-da 's request for me as part of the @/ficsforgaza initiative! Prompt is 'try me' taken from this prompt list here. Thank you so much for requesting mwah <3. I may make this into a series but well we will see how it goes

All likes and reblogs are appreciated!

-

You’re thrown onto a bright stage, stumbling to a kneel with alloy-reinforced cuffs around your feet. The overhead lights beam at you, their orange rays starting to make you feel like a dish under food warmers waiting to be sold.

Though, it isn’t too far-fetched to say so. Among the pitch-black sea of darkness in front of you are shady bidders ready to pounce with their money.

Your arms, also restrained behind you with cuffs, start to feel sticky with sweat.

The auctioneer’s voice brims with enthusiasm as he describes you. Some terms and sentences go over your head, but you catch him throw out some characteristics that you are unapologetically proud of. Strong, agile, violent. The enthusiasm maintains even as he describes the injuries you inflicted on your current owner. Standing at the sidelines with a crutch and bandages on his face, you can smell his desperation in trying to get you off his hands. 

Given the gasps from the crowd, you’re certain no one will buy you. No one sane will throw their money for a beast that will bite them. But you don’t despair or feel even a pint of remorse. Throughout the wastelands of your birthplace and the planets you sought refuge in, you fought to ensure you did not have to bow down to others.

Besides, if nobody bids for you, you’ll automatically remain as property of this pathetic man. He and his bodyguards got nothing on you, and you can make your escape again. However, that would have to mean you’d have to make a quick escape. One much further out of the city before a particular group of men catches you again. It was dark the night they subdued you, so you didn’t manage to identify them. There is nothing of note other than the smell of nicotine, which is commonplace and useless information.

However, when the auctioneer begins, the paddles still rise from the darkness. Bidders shout their bids one after another. The scene leaves you bewildered. 

It’s a never-ending rally of shouts and increasing numbers until an assertive voice breaks through the buzz in the hall. When he announces his bid, silence befalls the auction hall. It is a price much higher than the previous by a large margin. If there is any shock, the auctioneer does not show it. He immediately responds, “[name], two thousand million dollars! Calling once!”

You don’t know if you’ll ever understand the workings of the underground world. It’s already difficult for you to comprehend how people are drawn towards danger.

“Calling twice!”

Whoever is throwing this much money to buy you must be a really mad dog.

“And sold!”

The knock of the hammer reverberates through the hall and the chatter resumes. The transfer of ownership makes a little uncertainty take root in your chest. You’re not sure of the capabilities of your new owner, and you hope he and his subordinates cannot match up with yours.

A man with hair of a mustard colour and bangs comes to get you. The alloy-reinforced restraints on your legs are released and you shake your feet to rid of the feeling of the metal eating into your skin. But he doesn’t give you much time before he probes you with the hilt of his sword. The moment he opens his mouth, you’re already set on making trouble for him. 

He drawls and speaks in between yawns, “Hey, hey, get going. I’d like to get to sleep as fast as I can.”

If you weren’t restrained, you’d have given him a good punch. He pokes you with his sword all the way to the car. Admittedly, his carrying of a sword makes you respect him a little. He’s got balls of steel from the way he carried it unapologetically in his belt (before he used it to be irritating). Most have already switched to guns or well-hidden daggers with the sword ban. 

With your hands still cuffed behind, he shoves you into the passenger seat and your face almost hits straight into the gear stick. You shoot him a glare that he doesn’t catch. With your hands behind you, you’re unable to lean back into your seat.

You gather all the propriety you can find within yourself and ask, “Can you release me? I’d like to sit back.”

He stretches over you for the seat belt and buckles it over your awkwardly bent forward body. “No.”

Without warning, he steps on the pedal and begins the drive down the dark city. In a foul mood and slouched against the seat belt pressing into your body, you scrutinise his attire. Long black coat with gold accents. It’s characteristic of a famous syndicate in the underground, but their name eludes your mind. S… S something. Or M… something? 

No matter, you’ll fight him and escape the moment you get out of the car. Even if he doesn’t release the restraints on your hands, you’ll make do with just your legs. Such a powerful organisation isn’t likely to have any business with you.

With the same lazy drawl as before, he says, “Alright, [name], welcome to the club. You’re to heed my every order, even if I tell you to die. In return, you get three meals a day.”

“That’s an awful deal. I’m always hungry, make it five.”

“Pampered much?”

“For my full prowess and to maintain my energetic self, I need that much.”

“Energetic? Oh, I’m guessing you’d be useful even in the sheets.”

What a crude asshole. “I’d detonate your dick.”

“Feisty bitch. You guys are always like that.”

You guys? Does this man have more than one slave? 

The car swerves sharply into a winding side road and you hiss at him. A three-storey Japanese house, surrounded by seemingly endless stretches of walls, comes into view along with smaller ones behind it. They appear well-maintained, but not flashy.

From the distance, you see the traditional Japanese wooden gates open as if they have been expecting the car. You observe the gate, trying to make an estimation on whether you could scale it. As much as possible, you’d like to avoid smashing through the gate and causing a commotion.

The headlights briefly pass the wooden plate nailed onto the gate frame as the car drives in. 

Shinsengumi. 

It hits you like a brick that this is the captain of the first division, Okita Sougo. A pint of anxiety takes root in your chest and for once, you’re unsure about your escape. You’ve fought and won many people, but those were not renowned fighters of the underworld. 

The Shinsengumi is a name that instils fear. They are disliked, but many cower under their gaze.

His subordinate opens the car door and you let him escort you into the building. Okita yawns behind you and you count on his fatigue to lead him to dreamland soon.

The nameless Shinsengumi member guides you to a shoddy, barren room with just a chair. He says something about the captain allocating this room to you. But a sense of danger grows imminent within you, causing most of his words to go over your head. Your legs itch to take off, but you suppress it as if you’re persuading an antsy child to be patient. The restraints need to be released, otherwise, the escape will be a sure failure for you.

The growing uneasiness in your chest warps your sense of time, making time seem to tick hurriedly. You’re not sure how much time has passed when the same member returns to release your cuffs. With no time to waste, you knock out the poor guy and break through the glass window. You hurl yourself over the windowsill. With the momentum of one foot when it touches the concrete, you launch towards the closed gate. 

You do not cover much distance when Okita appears beside you in a blur. You clench your fists and throw them towards him – his face in particular. 

Okita dodges your swing by leaning backwards and he uses the momentum to punch your flank with the side of his arm. You hit the ground on your back, but you compose yourself quick enough to kick him away and flip back up onto your feet.

Both of you exchange blows and swing fists at each other. You soon find that your body is starting to slow with a few days worth of exhaustion. As you punch him towards a tree, he manages to plant his feet on the bark while airborne and propels back towards you. You shift to dodge, but your foot slips. 

In the split second before his mean punch meets your face, you notice the gold of his coat catching the bright moonlight. A memory surfaces. In the pitch black of that night with barely any moonlight, there was a faint flash of gold.

You blackout. 

The next time you come to, you’re slouched over on a chair. The room is dark, and light barely reaches in from the slightly ajar door. Your nose aches and your hands are tied up once again. Raising your head, you meet a crimson-red gaze that’s between you and the door. 

Okita partly mirrors you, seated hunched over in his chair. But his elbows are propped on his knees and he rests his chin on the back of his hands. His eyes do not avert even as you shoot him a glare.

He rises from his seat and saunters over to you. You see the bruises and cuts you had given to him as your eyes adjust to the darkness. It quells your anger ever so slightly, even as he’s relishing looking down at you.

“I knew you’d try that. Energetic enough to fuck with me for a third time?”

“Die.”

You’d lunge at him at this moment, but you’re too exhausted. Sougo unsheathes his sword in a fraction of a second and he raises it above you. Your heart races. Maybe this is the end, but you keep your gaze steeled on him.

He brings down the sword and you hear it hit the floor with a loud thud. You do not feel pain where you expect it to flare. Looking down to assess your hands, a dent in the tatami mat below you catches your attention instead. The rope coiled around your wrists slides to the ground. Aside from the injuries from the tussle earlier, you’re unscathed from his sword.

“I can’t wait to wipe that defiant look off your face.”

The sheer absurdity you experienced from this man fires you up. You stare him back in the eye again. “Try me, assface.”

Even with the slight curve of his lips that he tries to suppress, the sadism brimming in his eyes betrays him. Sougo walks out of the room without a retort and closes the door. Following the sound of the lock, his footsteps fade away.

You slump back down into the chair. Basking in the darkness for a while, you let the last few hours sink in. When you stop trembling, you feel along the walls for the light switch and flick it. You wince from the sudden brightness and your eyes open slowly. 

It’s a clean and tidy room. No windows, presumably to prevent you from pulling an escape using it again. Near a small shelf, there’s a clean, folded futon with a pillow. Fresh clothes similar to the tattered ones you’re wearing sit atop it. Your loyal companion of an umbrella, which you thought you lost, rests closed on the floor beside the futon.

[astranauticus]

Director of the False Last Act

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Party of one (divided into four)

[rux363]

The time has come... to proudly share my contribution for this year's @kaishinbigbang!!

It has been amazing working with @instablamwriter - thank you so much for being such a supportive partner, time truly flied working with you!!

NOW GO GIVE THEM SOME LOVE IN:

this long night too shall pass

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC: No Time for Monkey Business

Danny’s family is gone. His parents, Jazz... 

Danny had come home to Fenton works only to find the place tossed and ransacked, the portal broken, and his family missing. Danny doesn’t know who to trust, but he needs to find his family and whoever took them. He can’t do it on his own though, He needs help. He needs a detective, and who better to help then the greatest detective in the world...

Bobo T. Chimpanzee aka Detective Chimp

For those of you unfamiliar with Detective Chimp, he is canonically the best detective in the world, better than Batman who is merely the best human detective. His skills include being able to speak to any living creature, eternal youth, hyperintelligence, incredible deductive skills, occult knowledge, and alcoholism

okay, the alcoholism isn’t a skill bit it’s wild he’s an alcoholic in canon. His entire lore is frankly wild, including Rex the Wonder Dog and the fountain of youth plus a court case that examined the implications of him being an animal owning his own business and making contracts. The ape has been in a surprising amount of team ups, from Batman, to the Shadowpact, and is in the regular rotation of Justice League Dark

He owns a magic sword called the Sword of Night, and is sassy with a sort of dry humor. Honestly kind of similar to constantine in some ways.

And Danny should play the Watson to his Sherlock. 

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[sesamenom]

Reverse Gondolin AU Family Portrait - House of the Queen

[notnights]

This book is the reason why I'm Into That Shit.

[tenderjock]

in the middle before I knew that I had begun; [not a happy codywan ficlet]

In the Jedi teaching, attachment is forbidden. Love is – a separate issue, obviously, as love can take many forms. When Cody and I were – what I mean is, I was –

You realized that you were in love with him and panicked.

: :

Obi-Wan is finishing the dregs of his second Daruvvian champagne cocktail when Breha inhales, sharp.

“Hmm?” he turns to her. His head is pleasantly fuzzy, but he’s far from nonfunctional. “My dear, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she’s quick to reassure him. There’s something strained around her eyes. He turns to see what she had been looking at, and she puts an insistent hand on his arm. “No, Obi-Wan –”

He doesn’t immediately see whatever caused Breha such stress; instead, Obi-Wan’s eyes go to Cody, sharply dressed in his greys across the ballroom. He’s talking to the Ghayyn’i ambassador, a handsome man with wide green eyes. The ambassador is tall enough that Cody has to look up to meet his gaze. Obi-Wan opens his mouth to comment, rather snarkily, on that fact, when the ambassador brushes gentle, sensual fingers across Cody’s chest.

Obi-Wan waits for Cody to move away. He doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, a little knowing quirk of the lips.

“Oh,” he says, feeling rather as though the wind has been knocked out of him. “Oh.” He quickly looks away. Cody is a very private person, and it feels wrong to have seen something so clearly intimate.

“Obi-Wan,” Breha says, and her face is sad. Obi-Wan doesn’t know why it’s sad. Nothing bad has happened. He clears his throat, thinking one of the sweet-pickle cherries in his drink must have caught there. Unbidden, his gaze is drawn back to Cody and the – the ambassador, who is now laughing at something Cody said.

It’s fine. It’s beyond fine – it’s wonderful, that people recognize Cody for the brilliant man that he is, Obi-Wan explains, three cocktails later, eyes closed with his head in Bail’s lap. Bail makes a noncommittal noise.

“People other than his command,” he clarifies. “And his fellow commanders. And, ah. Me.” His voice is very rough on the last word. These sugary drinks are really hell on the throat, he thinks.

“Of course, love,” Breha says soothingly. Her hand cards through his hair. It feels pleasant. Cody does the same, when they’re lying in Obi-Wan’s bunk together after a long day.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, letting them stare unfocused somewhere near the floor. Breha is really wearing the most ridiculous shoes, and he’s thinking he should tell her that when a pair of GAR-issued boots come to a crisp halt just in his line of sight.

“General,” Cody says. Obi-Wan nearly falls out of Bail’s lap in his effort to sit up quickly.

“Commander!” he says, helpless to how warm he sounds. Cody had looked good when they left the ship, all buttoned up in his uniform, but he looks better now. He’s holding his cap in his hand, letting Obi-Wan see his short curls, and the top clasp of his jacket is undone.

Obi-Wan squints. Is that a lovebite on his neck?

Before he can dwell on that, Cody says, “We should get you back to the Temple, sir.”

Obi-Wan considers that. He’s fine where he is, except that when he attempts to lay back down in Bail’s lap, both Bail and Breha push him back up.

“That’s a good idea,” Bail says, firm but kind. How he adores the man. “I can arrange for an air taxi – Commander, are you alright to see him back?” There’s something uncertain in Bail’s voice. Obi-Wan doesn’t know why; it’s Cody. Of course they’ll see each other back.

Cody just looks at him. In this light, his eyes are dark honey.

“I’ll get you home, boss,” he says after a beat. Obi-Wan blinks at him, lips parted. He suddenly feels the alcohol very much, everything loose and golden and a little bit sweaty. Cody’s lips twitch. “C’mon, then.”

Cody manhandles Obi-Wan to his feet. Obi-Wan tucks his face into Cody’s shoulder as best he can while also moving his limbs in the direction of the taxi Bail is calling them. Cody, wonderful steady dependable Cody, keeps him going, a hand at his waist and another under his armpit.

“The ambassador,” Obi-Wan manages after a few steps. Cody hums.

“He had to leave,” Cody says. “There was an afterparty. He asked –” he cuts himself off, then continues: “I’d rather stay here, honestly.”

Obi-Wan nuzzles the starched fabric of his shirt. Wonderful man, he thinks.

The taxi ride lurches unpleasantly. Obi-Wan is distracted by the task of not spewing the contents of his stomach all over his commander. They get to the Temple without incident, and make it to Obi-Wan’s rooms with no one other than Yoda – who cackles – seeing them.

Cody puts Obi-Wan down in his bed. Obi-Wan tugs him in after.

He catches himself above Obi-Wan, arms bracketing Obi-Wan’s head. Cody huffs a bit of laughter and dips down to brush a kiss over his forehead. Obi-Wan cranes up, chasing his lips.

“Not now, sir,” Cody says, chiding. He kneels at the side of the bed to take off Obi-Wan’s boots. When he’s done, he leans back up, brushing the hair out of Obi-Wan’s face.

Obi-Wan beams at him, feeling unbearably fond. His Cody. His darling. Always looking after him.

Cody’s face is very still, just a few inches above his. Obi-Wan reaches out, touches his scar.

“What are you thinking?” he wonders. Cody shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.” He kisses Obi-Wan’s forehead again. “Get some rest, General.”

Obi-Wan exhales, eyes fluttering closed. He tracks Cody’s movement, straightening his jacket, turning the lights off, slipping out the door. His familiar Force presence is warm sunlight and hot caf, thrilling and comfortable in equal measure.

As the door clicks closed, Obi-Wan murmurs sleepily to himself, “Love you, my darling.”

: :

When he wakes up, head pounding and mouth dry, Obi-Wan remembers what he said. He’s the only one that heard it; it would have been easier to forget.

This complicates things.

Somehow, they go a fortnight, ending their leave and starting a mission, without Obi-Wan saying anything. He’s just – waiting for the right moment, a moment when they aren’t dogged by war and flimsiwork, when he can talk to Cody calmly and reasonably.

Or does he even need to talk to Cody? He was drunk. Everyone says things they don’t mean when they’re drunk. Teenage drunken Anakin once told Obi-Wan he wished he had been born a jellysquash, as they have no feelings and don’t know enough to care.

Cody is leading a squad on Im-Onh-Augulu’s surface when comms cut out. It’s a tense three-quarter hour before they reestablish communications.

“Arrow squad to Vigilance,” Corporal Hart is saying. “Vigilance, do you copy?”

“Copy,” Gregor says, shooting Obi-Wan a look. Cody should be the one contacting them and they both very well know it. “Arrow, sitrep, over.”

“Is General Kenobi there, Captain?” the corporal says. “Over.”

Obi-Wan’s heart is in his throat. “I’m listening, Hart, over,” he says. Under the sleeves of his robes, he’s clenching his wrists hard enough to bruise.

“They captured the commander, sir,” Hart says, desperately blunt. “When they recognized him, they took him and left the rest of us. Said they’re going to use him for negotiations. Over.”

Gregor looks at him. Appalment-sympathy-secondhand-embarrassment-stress is radiating off not just him, but also every clone trooper and officer on the bridge.

Use him for negotiations. Because Cody was a Marshal Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic. Because he was Obi-Wan’s right hand man. Because Obi-Wan loved him, dearly, and would do near about anything to get him back, a fact which was apparently obvious to everyone except for him.

“Understood,” Obi-Wan says, feeling like his mouth is very far away from his body. “Regroup at the drop point; we’ll be sending a secondary team to that location for extraction.” He’s quiet for a second, nails biting into skin. “May the Force be with you. Over.”

: :

Obi-Wan is the one leading the extraction team, and Obi-Wan is the one to find Cody. He’s in bad shape.

“Didn’t –” Cody slurs out. His eyes can’t seem to focus. “Didn’t tell – ah – them kriff, sir.”

Obi-Wan stares at him, heart pounding in his chest. At his commander – at Cody, telling him that he didn’t fucking talk, when he was being fucking tortured because of Obi-Wan –

“I know,” he says, finally, blinking. He touches the pads of his fingers to Cody’s left eye. “I know you didn’t.” Obi-Wan leaves off the my dear at the end of that sentence, because it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like he deserves it. He slings an arm around Cody and hauls him to his feet, instead. “Right this way, Commander.”

Not just his commander. The man he loves.

That thought beats around Obi-Wan’s head for almost a day before he can reconcile it with the heavy feeling in his gut. The man he loves. And he doesn’t – he can’t – it doesn’t mean –

His chest hurts.

Cody doesn’t –

It can’t be so kriffing serious that he can’t think the words. It’s not. It’s not –

Cody doesn’t love him. How could he? How could his beautiful, brave, resilient, kind Commander Cody, who isn’t really his at all – how could he love Obi-Wan? And if he did – if he had some incredible lapse in judgement that allowed him to – to – Cody would have said something, his brutally levelheaded Cody who wasn’t afraid of anything, let alone Obi-Wan and his feelings –

So, no. Cody didn’t love him. That shouldn’t make Obi-Wan feel like his ribcage was being split in two.

And if Cody doesn’t love him, then that means it isn’t wrong for Obi-Wan to – kiss him, soft and warm, and press his cold nose to the back of Cody’s neck, and hold him, and –

It can’t be wrong, can it? It can’t be wrong. It hurts no one. He knows possession is against the Jedi code, but this isn’t possession, because Cody isn’t his, and Cody doesn’t love him, and –

Obi-Wan feels ill.

Cody remains in bacta for three days. Obi-Wan finishes his flimsiwork, then finishes Cody’s flimsiwork, then works on some of Gregor’s flimsiwork. He arranges the battle plans for their next two attacks. He oversees the writing of some new training protocols, something about not letting shinies have access to oxygen tanks. He scrubs his quarters, stem to stern, twice.

Eventually, Cody wakes up. And like a flutterbug drawn to flame, Obi-Wan goes to him.

: :

“We need to stop,” Obi-Wan says. He’s not looking at Cody. It’s the day after the commander’s been released by the medics, and he came to Obi-Wan’s quarters to get the datapads Obi-Wan had borrowed when he was doing all the flimsiwork he could get his hands on.

“… Stop?” Cody asks. His brow is furrowed. Obi-Wan aches to smooth it out.

“This,” Obi-Wan starts, and stumbles. “Our – us. What we have. We need to stop.”

He expects Cody to argue. He expects Cody to demand an explanation. He doesn’t expect Cody to take a slow, deep breath and say, “Of course, sir. If you think it’s best.”

Obi-Wan feels like his chest has caved in. He can’t speak.

“Anything else, sir?” Cody asks. Obi-Wan shakes his head, blinking hard.

Cody stands there at parade rest for a long moment before Obi-Wan realizes he’s waiting for a dismissal. He clears his throat. “Ah, no, Commander. That’s all.”

Cody salutes crisply – salutes – and about-faces to the door. When it clicks shut behind him, Obi-Wan lets out a single hideous, strangled sob. He buries his face in his hands.

Well. At least it looks like they won’t have to dance around each other awkwardly for much longer, he thinks to himself. The war looks to be over soon. Obi-Wan sniffs, straightens himself up, and pulls up the plans for the invasion of Utapau.

[ganondoodle]

im kinda glad i was a tiny child when windwaker came out and i only played it years later without having internet access for the longest time bc i would have NOT survived the hatred i know ww got when it first came out bc it wasnt what most people expected (ww is my fav zelda)

loving botw but not liking totk and seeing the vast majority praise the latter like its the holy grail while alot also discrediting and needlessly hating on botw for it is already making it hard to stay calm about :U

[strawberrywindow]

I couldn't stop thinking about an AU where Daniel resorts to gathering vitae again, this time to 'cure' Hazel, after his Brennenburg adventure💫, thoughts all mainly derived from this loadscreen text that tells us that Hazel is still in hospice care by the time the game's story began.

As much as I love Daniel, I don't think he really learned all that much from his experience even in the most charitable ending towards him in which he saves Agrippa. I can very, VERY easily see him slipping back into old ways if it meant saving Hazel. The most he seems to approach viewing torture as bad is when he realizes he himself no longer counts as an innocent so he can't justify killing others to save himself anymore. But killing no good, horrible, bad people to save HAZEL? Now, we're cooking with gas 😀 💀

[pacinglikeghosts]

so....seems like y'all were frustrated with us after that last chapter (which has been fun for us to read!). as compensation, here is an excerpt from a fic im working on in the same universe as dad!carmy, with olivia as a teenager! also known as, the misadventures of carmen berzatto raising a teenage girl. olivia is sixteen in this, so ten years after the original fic!

“Can I talk to you?” Olivia asks, joining Sydney on the couch. The restaurant's closed on Sundays, under the guise of the Lord's day of rest, which usually prompts times like this, Sydney researching god-knows-what while Carmy runs errands, and Olivia tagging along on his trips or working on her homework. In the chaos of the kitchen, the dull moments were just as exhilarating. 

Sydney looks up from her laptop, a tab on recent restaurant closures on her screen. “Uh…yeah, um, sure.  What’s up?”

“I need advice, and I don’t want to ask Dad or Auntie Nat,” Olivia says, pulling her knees to her chest. Sydney’s eyes widen, panic crossing over her face as if she’s running through every possibility. “Jesus, Syd, I’m fine!” Olivia insists, fighting back laughter over the panicked expression. “I just…I’m into this guy in my math class. I want to ask him out, or whatever, and we’ve been talking for a while, but I don’t want to embarrass myself and ruin everything. I didn’t want to ask Auntie Nat, because she’d give me some stupid shit about trusting my heart or whatever, and Dad’s Dad.”

“You’re asking me for relationship advice?” Sydney asks, a bit bewildered. Olivia nods. “Well, I just want to tell you that I’m probably not going to have great advice…I’ve only had one real relationship in the past twenty years, and it didn’t exactly start on the healthiest of terms.” 

Olivia shrugs. Another thing they’ve been transparent about, solely because of its impact on their lives through customers and people in the grocery store, was Sydney and Carmy’s relationship. It’s a little gross to Olivia even now, but her parents are happy, so she can’t complain too much. Especially when she could have a parent six feet in the ground or spend her weekends shuttling from one parent’s place to another. “That’s fine,” she promises. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“What’s this boy like?” Sydney asks, awkwardly drumming her fingers on her legs and her laptop. 

Olivia pulls her phone from her hoodie pocket, unlocking it and typing for a few seconds. “His name’s Logan, he’s on the debate team and plays lacrosse, and he’s really cool. Cooler than me.” 

“Okay, let me see a picture of him,” Sydney encourages, setting her laptop down on the coffee table. 

Olivia turns her phone around, showing off a few photos she pulled from his social media profiles. Sydney presses her lips together in a poor attempt of hiding the smile on her face, shaking her head. “What’s so funny?” Olivia asks with a frown. 

“Nothing, honey, don’t worry about it,” Sydney forces out, attempting to keep a straight face. “I’ll think on some advice, okay? Finish your homework.”

“What–Syd, what’s so funny about him? He’s cool, and hot, and—”

Sydney shakes her head. “I told you, I’m going to think of some advice. It’s been a few years, I haven't really thought about this.”

[muirneach]

three chinese players across the chengdu and hangzhou semifinals + guaranteed chinese finalist in hangzhou hell yessss 🫡🫡

[cafesweetvn]

I FINISHED THE ALTERNATE BAD END ROUTE!!! I STILL GOTTA FINISH THE OTHER BAD END(it’s basically the same thing just a little different!) AND THEN EVERYTHING ELSE I MENTIONED EARLIER!! I did also get TWO(technically three) cg’s planned out too for the bad end!! Gotta say, probably one of the most gruesome things I’ve EVER written before LMAOOO the word count is at 2904 rn!!

Also! I know I had planned for the demo to be a day and a half but I think I’m just going to make it a day and then heading into work the next day! This is basically my first project(I had barely had any ideas for pacing when it came to Mine so I wasn’t sure where to start) and so I don’t want to overwhelm myself! Speaking of days I haven’t really planned out how many days I wanted there to be, there will definitely be more then five days(I can’t make a short story to save my life) I’ll get to a rough outline of events and routes after I finish writing/release the first day!

[edwardwonghaupepelutivrusky4th]

technically if it's not simmered in the champagne region of france it's a sparkling best boy friend

[bluewindfall]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Okumura Rin & Okumura Yukio Characters: Okumura Yukio, Okumura Rin Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Mystery, Aged-Up Character(s), major spoilers for chapter 139 and 140 of the manga, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, descriptions of blood and violence, Time Travel, Character Death, Murder, Slice of Life, sort of a case fic, with angst, Fluff, hand wavy space time whatever, food and other love languages, and a hopeful ending Summary:

A cold case Shiro once investigated is assigned to Rin nearly twenty years later. The toll of missing exorcists is rising, yet it’s a case ridden with corruption and unspoken secrets.

An unidentified, high-level demon appears at the airport— wielding a sword Yukio knows.

He sinks to one knee, leaning close enough for a few strands of his bangs to graze Yukio’s forehead. There is no warmth in his eyes, yet the lack of it is haunting. 

 “Two years is a long time. A lot can change.”