#one piece snippet

[springingsour]

Nice Try... | BLINK One-Shot

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the vast expanse of the ocean, its gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of a ship that sailed these treacherous but beautiful seas.

The air was filled with salt and adventure, mingling with the sweet fragrance of ripe fruits that rested in a nearby basket.

A well-worn hammock swaying softly with the breeze was on the deck of the ship, hung between two sturdy masts. Nestled within someone, peacefully asleep, a serene expression was seen upon the figure, inhaling the fresh sea air. The hammock gently rocked as the ship glided through the water, creating a soothing lull that harmonised with the distant cries of gulls overhead.

Around the deck, the soft creaking of wooden planks and the occasional rigging clang added to the sea's symphony. The sails billowed, catching the wind with a sound reminiscent of whispers, as the ship sailed steadily toward the horizon, where the sky met the deep blue sea.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping figure, two young boys, crept stealthily across the deck. Their eyes sparkled with mischief as they plotted to sneak up on the sleeping figure. They moved with care, hearts pounding with excitement, hoping to catch their target by surprise and steal away a moment of joy amidst the sprawling ocean.

Together, they giggled in hushed tones, clutching their gear—plump tomatoes and a bucket of water in hand—as they drew ever closer. The boys were ready to unleash their playful ambush, unaware that beneath the figures' tranquil exterior, a spark of cunning awaited its moment to shine.

Two hushed voices floated through the balmy air of the ship, barely audible above the creaking of the wooden deck.

"Shh…! You're going to get us caught…!" whispered one boy, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder as he meticulously loaded the cloth catapult with a ripe, red tomato. He aimed with precision at a shadowy figure lounging on the deck a distance away, his heart racing with the thrill of mischief.

"I'm being careful; you're the loud one…!" retorted his companion, who was hoisting an old bucket, grinning from ear to ear. The sunlight glinted off the surface of the bucket, revealing an array of plump, juicy tomatoes waiting to be unleashed.

"Okay… 3…" the first boy murmured, his voice trembling with excitement.

"2…" the second boy echoed, his grin widening as they prepared for impact.

"1…!"

With a sudden burst of energy, the bucket was hurled, and the tomatoes soared through the air in a vibrant arc, splattering onto the unsuspecting figure below. The delighted laughter of the young boys erupted like fireworks as they turned on their heels and sprinted away, the thrill of the prank propelling them forward.

However, their glee was short-lived. The wind suddenly blew right past them, and they knew it was too late. In their haste, they collided with the slick, tomato-splattered deck, losing their footing. The next moment, they found themselves sliding unceremoniously across the wet surface, the crew's laughter echoing in a hilariously tangled chorus of surprise and delight.

"AH!" came the startled cry from one boy as he bumped into a pair of legs adorned with gleaming golden sandals.

"HEY!" protested the other, he cried out in pain, rubbing his face where a red spot started to bloom, his tone now mingled with bewilderment as they came to a halt at the feet of a bemused onlooker.

A chuckle rumbled from above as you leaned down, an amused twinkle in your eyes as you surveyed the mess of tomato-stained clothing and exuberant grins before you. The scent of fresh tomatoes hung in the air, mixing with the salty breeze of the sea.

“Good effort, boys… Good effort indeed…” you remarked, an amused grin tugging at your lips as you sank your teeth into the ripe, juicy tomato, the sweet-sour juice bursting against your taste buds. You couldn’t help but relish their antics—the chaotic energy radiating between them was nothing short of contagious. "I suspect this was Shanks' plan this round…?"

Shanks, the red-haired boy with a wild spirit, glanced up at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he adjusted the straw hat perched jauntily on his head, the worn fabric tilting slightly to one side.

“Guilty as charged…!” he proclaimed with mock seriousness, his laughter echoing like music in the air. The sound was infectious, tugging you into a fit of giggles, but it only prompted his companion to exhale dramatically, exasperation painted across his features.

“Geez, you’ve messed it up again, Shanks…” Buggy grumbled, rising to his feet with an exaggerated sigh. He attempted to brush the vibrant tomato stains from his clothes, each swish of his hand only adding to the disarray, the scattered remnants of their playful food fight now colouring his outfit like a poorly executed art piece.

“Oh, come on, Buggy!” Shanks said, his eyes dancing with delight, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a grin that could light up the darkest of places. “It’s all in good fun! Besides, I thought you liked a bit of adventure!”

Buggy crossed his arms, his frown deepening into a comically exaggerated pout, but you could see the flicker of amusement that danced in his eyes, betraying his true feelings. “Adventure is fine, but next time, can we skip the food fight aspect?” he retorted, trying—and failing—to maintain his stern demeanour.

"Oi! It was your idea too…!" Shanks shot back playfully, laughter and annoyance bubbling between them as they both started to bicker, the light-hearted banter intensifying. They began gripping onto one another, wrestling playfully in a comedic display.

As the bickering escalated, you couldn't help but smirk at the unfolding scene. A sudden awareness of another presence made you turn your head slightly, spotting a certain someone less than pleased.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you decided to interject, desperate to steer the chaos in a new direction. “How about a challenge instead? Whoever gets caught by Rayleigh loses…” Your voice dripped with mischief, your proposal hanging in the air like an enticing promise of adventure.

The prospect of a challenge sparked an immediate flicker of confusion, quickly morphing into palpable fear in the two young pirate apprentices.

"Eh…?" Shanks uttered, a tone of disbelief colouring his words, while Buggy’s expression morphed into one of sheer panic, a shiver running down his spine.

A new game had been set in motion, and with it came the thrill of unpredictability—an adventure that promised more than just laughs.

"Oi! SHANKS! BUGGY! Why is the deck in such a mess!" Called out the voice of the first mate who sounded mad.  

The two boys cast curious glances your way, the realization of what you had done with the other tomatoes slowly creeping into their expressions.

"I couldn't let your hard work go to waste, now could I…?" A playful grin spreads across your face as you sink your teeth into the ripe, juicy fruit, savouring its sweet tang. "I’d start running if I were you…"

With that they darted in opposite directions, you couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning back against the wall to watch the chaos unfold. Their antics reminded you how much fun it was to be around such carefree spirits, each moment promising more laughter and chaos to come.

Buggy suddenly slipped on a stray tomato, sending him sprawling on the floor with a surprised yelp. Shanks doubled over with laughter, momentarily forgetting the danger he was in, while he rushed over to help Buggy up.

"So… the only time I see you two working together is to create more trouble, eh?" he huffed, his voice echoing slightly over the creaking wood of the ship.

Rayleigh, the ever-diligent first mate of the crew, stood with a furrowed brow, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and exasperation as he glared at the two boys who had been caught in yet another bout of mischief.

With a sudden crack, the boys cried in unison, clapping their hands to their heads, where Rayleigh’s firm hand had made contact. It was a lesson they had learned time and again: their playful antics had consequences. Yet even in the flurry of their discomfort, there was a flicker of mischief in their eyes, as if they were already plotting their next scheme.

You leaned against the rail, a smirk dancing on your lips beneath your tilted hat. The laughter bubbled quietly within you, your wings fluttering subtly against your face as you enjoyed the spectacle. Rayleigh’s gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, caught yours, and his frown deepened.

"You couldn’t be bothered to stop them…?" he sighed, weariness manifesting in the lines of his face as he turned to face you, but a hint of fondness lay in his tone.

"What…? I didn’t do anything… I was simply resting, Ray…" You replied with feigned innocence, the corners of your mouth curling up into a grin. It was hard to keep up the façade as you strolled past them, adjusting your hat with a nonchalant gesture. Your wings fluttered gently, catching the afternoon light.

As you passed the two boys, their expressions shifted from pain to mischief.

While Rayleigh enforced the rules, you seemed to exist in a realm just a bit more playful, where trouble and laughter often went hand in hand. The stage was set for another day filled with the antics of a crew that thrived on camaraderie—and of course, a little chaos.

Such is the life when you are a pirate of Roger himself.

____________________________________________________

Buggy, grinning: Before you were what?

Shanks: Before I was-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: Before I was inter-

Buggy: Before you were interrupted?

Shanks: Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: *makes frustrated sound*

You, munching on popcorn, enjoying the show: Stop that. Before he hurts you.

Rayleigh: Don't encourage them!

Buggy: I have met some of the most insufferable people. But they also met me.

*Shanks and Buggy are fighting*

Rayleigh, hungover after a night of drinking: I have a headache! Can you guys just be cool?!

You, hand them something: You heard him…

*Shanks and Buggy start fighting while wearing sunglasses and riding skateboards*

You, munching on more popcorn:

You: What doesn't kill me better start running, because now I'm fucking pissed.

Shanks: Onion rings are vegetable doughnuts.

Buggy, used to Shanks being dumb: Sure...

Shanks: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed.

Buggy: Okay?

Shanks: Lasagna is a spaghetti-flavored cake.

Buggy:

Shanks: Lobsters are mermaid scorpio-

Buggy: Jeez! That one is a little-

You, interested as you munch on even more popcorn: No, no, Shanks, keep going.

Shanks: It's not like I try to blow things up, exactly. It just sort of happens. You've got to admit though, fire is fascinating.

Rayleigh: Are you listening to me?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: What did I just say?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: ...

You, munch on another dosagee popcorn:

Rayleigh:

You: *Munch*

Rayleigh, snatches your popcorn away: No more!

You: (   - ᷅ ⤙ -᷄ )

______________________________________________________________

[rookanisstuff]

“I wanna take you in the kitchen. Lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in.”

[beif0ngs]

ONE PIECE OPENING 25 || THE PEAK BY SEKAI NO OWARI

[agender-wolfie]

Imagine Kid meeting his future partner by being too rowdy and knocking over their art stand or something by accident (being himself) but instead of apologizing, he blames them. Stating that they shouldn’t have been in the way in the first place. And instead of backing down and being a meek little mouse like he expects you to be,you tear into him.

“You listen to me you giant red fuck! I don’t work my ass off, pouring blood, sweat and tears into my work just so wild ass fuckos like you can come in here and tear shit up! You’re either going to clean this up and pay for the damages, or I’m gonna beat your ass!!”

The whole crew was stunned, everyone that didn’t run away in fear of an altercation was stunned, but most of all, Kid was stunned. As soon as you called him a “giant red fuck” his smirk dropped and his mouth hung open while a steady red creeped up his neck and face. The fact that you had the gall to stand up to him in the first place was one thing, but your fiery spirit and your overall passion in the face of a feared pirate is what had his heart thumping and pants becoming a bit tight.

Killer, who had moved close just in case he needed to step in and prevent more trouble, had seen the absolute love struck look on his captains face and let out an amused huff, knowing Kid had finally met his match.

[varpusvaras]

If someone ever asked Roy what Jason reminded him of, he would've said a cat.

A big, black, fluffy cat that would pretend to not even notice you for half a day, but would then proceed to flop right on top of you when you least expected it and leave you coated in fur.

A very cute, big, black, fluffy cat, of course, if Roy was being precise.

Yeah, that was his boyfriend.

His boyfriend, who was currently curled up on the bed like he truly was the cat he so reminded Roy about, his face pressed against Roy's thigh. Combined with the dimness of the room, it was almost enough to hide the fact that there was a large, nasty bruise covering half of Jason's face at the moment.

Almost.

"How did you even manage to get this?" Roy asked. It was mostly a rhetorical question at that point, just whispered out loud, because it was in the middle of the night and Jason was definitely ninety percent asleep already and was not going to give Roy a coherent answer. That was what one got after finishing up a two-days long mission and then deciding to instantly drive to the other side of the country, instead of staying put and resting after said two-days mission.

To be fair, if Roy was being completely honest, he did like Jason being home sooner than later. It wasn't a particularly big secret that Roy didn't hold much love for Gotham, after all, even if Jason still called the city home as much as he called their house home. He just...felt better when Jason was with him, especially after more grueling missions, and he was pretty sure that Jason knew it, even if they had never outright discussed it out loud.

Jason made a noise under his breath that quite honestly sounded like a kitten whining, and Roy had to bite his lip a little to not laugh at it. It would've been an affectionate laugh, of course, but better not risk it.

"Yeah, yeah." Roy ran his fingers through Jason's hair. "Mister always wearing a helmet. I'm gonna fix it up for you."

Jason made another noise, a softer one this time, and he settled further into the mattress as Roy continued to stroke his hair. Roy waited for a moment, then two, and when he was positive that Jason had fallen asleep, he slowly got up and made his way to the garage.

Despite being probably already bone-tired by arrival, Jason had still meticulously gone through their agreed homecoming routine. Lian knew about their identities, of course, and she was a smart girl, but all of the gear still belonged outside the main house. It had been Jason making most of the rules when it came to his own gear. He hated the thought of others touching it without his permission, and he especially hated even the idea of Lian touching it and somehow getting hurt. Sometimes it was like Jason was convinced that even looking towards any part of his gear would hurt Lian, which was something Roy felt like needed a licenced therapist to fully unpack. He did appreciate the care Jason displayed towards Lian, though, so he wasn't going to complain about it to Jason's face.

Thinking about Lian and Jason's face made Roy grimace. Jason didn't like letting Lian see him hurt, no matter how big or small. A bruise that was covering half of Jason's face was going to be hard to hide, though Roy knew that Jason would somehow be able to manage it. Painfully and by gritting his teeth, but he would.

Roy knew what it was all about. He wasn't stupid.

Roy flicked the lights on in the garage, before making his way to the cabinet Jason had claimed for himself. By this point, Roy had an open invitation to Jason's armor and weapons, as he was the only other person who knew how everything worked precisely. Roy was also pretty sure that Jason knew that Roy liked fixing things up for him, and he let him do it because it was an easier way to accept a display of affection than having to listen someone promise him everything, once again, while holding all the power to take their words back without a warning.

Roy went through the plan of action in his head while he unlocked the cabinet. He would need to fire up the workbench and get the electrical tools out in order to get the helmet fixed. Maybe he could draw up some plans how to make the front more durable while keeping it absorbant enough that it would still be the helmet taking the brunt of the hits and not Jason's head underneath it. It would take some time to figure out, but Jason would probably let him make him a new one if Roy just managed it. It would mean that the times of Jason having hard to hide-injuries would be lessened, after all.

Maybe he could manage to adjust the color, too, just to make it a little less vibrant. Roy was starting to seriously think that the helmet was beginning to act like the red capes in bullfighting, inviting more and more hits directly towards it simply because it was there. He wouldn't have been surprised if it really was so. Gotham was messed up, and the rogues playing a game of "who manages to break in the Red Hood's helmet and face first" sounded entirely plausible. This wasn't the first time Jason had come back sporting similar injuries, though usually they were either a little smaller, or Jason had had to stay in Gotham for longer and they were already fading by the time he got back.

Jason would most likely say no, though. The red was part of his brand at this point, it was meant to make an impression to anyone seeing it. Just Roy's luck that he had fallen for the theather kid who had not yet left the phase behind.

Not that Roy was ever going to say that to Jason. He was fully aware of the fact that he was the one running around with a bow, after all.

What a pair they made.

Roy smiled. What a pair, indeed, he thought, as he pulled the cabinet door open and proceeded to have Jason's helmet stare right at him from the upper shelf.

The helmet, which was very much not broken.

Roy stared at it for a good while. It was definitely the same helmet Jason had left with to Gotham. There was a small scratch on the paint, just unde the left lense, that Jason had meant to paint over but had not had the time yet. Roy had watched him pack it up with his own two eyes.

If Roy was anyone else, he would've been able to convince himself that there was probably a perfectly simple and harmless explanation. But Roy wasn't anyone else. Roy was who he was, and that was someone who had been fighting increasingly dangerous fights since he was a teenager, and who had seen harm being inflected over and over again and the marks it would leave behind.

Roy stared at the helmet. The helmet seemed to stare back at him, silently daring him to say it out loud.

Roy didn't say it. He closed the door and locked it back up, while something cold settled firmly at the bottom of his stomach.

He stood there for just a little longer, gathering himself, before he silently made his way out of the garage the exact same path he had walked in mere moments ago.

Lian was still asleep when Roy checked on her, and so was Jason when he slipped back into the bedroom. He stirred a bit when Roy laid down as well, not enough to wake up, but enough to turn towards Roy. Roy could see the bruise now in all of its glory, stretching across Jason's skin like a shadow.

Jason's hand was laying between them on the bed, and Roy laced their fingers together, gently and carefully.

Jason's hand was warm. It was enough to chase away some of the cold inside Roy, and he held onto it tightly.

[the-broken-pen]

Hey hey

Could you perhaps write a snippet where the building hero is in, gets bombed? Its bombed as an assassination attempt to get them, however the people in that building die and hero, succumbed to their injuries couldn't save everyone of them. At last they watched the last ambulance left without them, even as they called for help

Villians villa is just few kilometres away

Thankfu hero's legs aren't broken

They begin walking

The problem? Vil is way to composed and prim and perfect to let all of hero's blood get on their expensive carpets and fabrics. They could even be mad at the hero for reddening their porch if they hero stood their asking for bandages. What now? And the fight the two had yesterday that ended with "never see me again" and "don't ever talk to me"s.....vil was stopping hero from attending the event the building....

Will vil help them? They can just ask for bandages and leave.

What hero doesn't know: vil would literally destroy the world for hero, and there's no way in hell are they leaving hero on their doorstep.

(Anon you were cooking with this ask, thank you!)

The hero realized the building was going to explode a split second before it did, which wasn’t enough time to do anything other than brace.

They tensed, and there was a horrible screeching of metal and brick, followed by a deafening silence that covered them more completely than the rubble did.

The hero coughed once, weakly, pain rocketing through their chest, and shoved a piece of concrete off themself.

From somewhere else in the building, a soft, terrified wail began, broken around desperate sobs.

The hero coughed again, hand rising to their ribs. They didn’t have the energy to be surprised when their fingers came back coated in blood and dust. They grimaced at it, struggling to their feet–

And oh, god. That hurt.

The hero had a surgery once, the kind that resulted in bandages and a care regime and a set of stitches, and when they had woken up in the recovery unit, it had felt sort of like this. A moment of loopy half-awareness, and then a pain that had knocked the breath out of them, hands clenching into the sheets as a nurse tried to figure out if they needed more medication. 

This was worse. Their vision swam, and they blinked it back with a hiss.

Because someone, somewhere in the wreckage, was crying. And if one person was crying, it meant there was someone who survived. Which meant it was likely there were other survivors–ones too hurt to make any noise, ones knocked unconscious, ones still too shocked to do anything other than lay there–and it was the hero’s job to find them.

It took them far too long to locate the source of the crying. Longer to dig them out, vision going white as the person slammed into the hero’s chest in some facsimile of a terrified hug.

“You’re okay,” they managed, voice like gravel. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out, and you’re going to be just fine. Were you with anyone?”

And then again, and again, and again.

The hero panted, hands on their knees as their body fought them in an attempt to just collapse onto the concrete below. They just–they just needed a minute. Just one, maybe, and then they could–

This time, the hero wasn’t even aware of it before it happened.

The remains of the building shook, then disintegrated into itself in a plume of dust and rock. The hero shielded their eyes with one hand, blinking against the onslaught.

What little air they had managed to get stuttered out of their lungs in something close to a sob. They had done this enough times to know there wasn’t anyone in that building left alive. 

They sagged down against the nearest thing–more rubble, maybe? They didn’t know–and this time when they rested a hand on their side, there was a considerably larger amount of blood.

“That’s…not great,” they said, and their fingers blurred in front of them slightly. There was an ambulance right there. Just a couple feet away. They had already helped most of the survivors, so maybe it would be okay for the hero to–

A paramedic rounded the back of the ambulance, and the hero lifted a hand, reaching–

“Please, wait, I think–I think,” it hurt coming out of their mouth, “help. Please I need–” they trailed off as the paramedic took the step up into the ambulance.

And closed the door behind them.

The hero wasn’t even that surprised when the ambulance began to drive away.

“Help,” they finished weakly, then sucked a breath in through their nose.

They were supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Surviving, no, thriving in catastrophe. A pillar of light. The one with the plan. 

The kind of being that didn’t beg for help on the ground.

The hero wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to get themselves back to standing. It was as easy as that–one moment they were on the ground, gravel embedded in their knees, and the next they were up and shaking but they were up.

“If I stay here, I’ll die,” they murmured. They had hoped maybe the threat would keep their legs from buckling again. It didn’t.

They weren’t near any place that could be trusted. There wasn’t a safe clinic for heroes on this side of the city, and even if there was, the hero wouldn’t trust them. Couldn’t afford to.

But as for near…the hero swallowed the nausea as it rose in their throat. There was one place they could go. One person they could go to.

Four miles. They could do four. There was no other option.

Where the hero had had some blurry recollection, or at least, a good guess of how they got to standing, they had absolutely no clue how they made it onto the villain’s porch. They managed a blink, retching slightly as they stared at the villain’s wavering door, then had to freeze just to bite down the pain that had come from the gagging.

They tried to knock and ended up collapsing against the villain’s door, knees giving out entirely as their fingers scrabbled for purchase and left behind smeared bloody marks on the wood.

They weren’t entirely sure how that happened either, or how long it took the villain to answer the door. Just that it hurt—so, so much, it hurt so–and that they managed to shove themself back into some semblance of standing right before the villain pulled the door open.

The villain’s face did a sort of spasming thing as soon as they saw the hero, jaw dropping slightly in what the hero could only really read as shock.

There was a very considerable amount of blood on the door. They were cold.

“I–” the hero tried, but they weren’t really sure where they had been going with that sentence, and after yesterday and the screaming and the fight the villain probably didn’t want to see them at all, didn’t want to ever see their face again, so–their mind blanked. “I got blood on your door.”

They tried to gesture towards it, but that hurt, so their hand simply twitched slightly from where it hung by their side.

They glanced down at their feet, because they didn’t want to see what the villain’s face was doing, especially if what it was doing was anything resembling anger.

“Oh.” There was blood at the hero’s feet. “And on your porch, too, I guess.”

They looked up at the villain, but they were still staring at them, brow furrowed, hand clenching on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a very faint quiver of tears when they said it, and the hero knew better than to hope the villain didn’t catch it. 

Were they saying sorry for the porch or the door or yesterday–

“Holy shit,” the villain finally breathed, and it sounded like it had been punched out of them. The hero froze, panic rising in their chest.

“I’m sorry,” the hero blurted out, stammering. “I’m–I’m so sorry, I’ll go, just–could I maybe have some bandages? Just–just one, maybe, please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they said uselessly, head swimming. They couldn’t even remember what they were doing here. The villain was perfect in every sense of the word, stoic and proper and collected in a way the hero would never be; a marble statue brought to life. The idea of them letting the hero–the personification of a train wreck in motion–in to bleed all over the villain’s soft carpet and nice shoes and cause irreparable damage to their very expensive house was almost laughable. 

If they had had the breath to laugh.

More of the hero’s blood dripped onto the slats of the porch, and they stepped back. “I’m sorry–”

The villain reached for them, and the hero flinched, taking it for the dismissal it was–

The hero blinked, and it stuck for a moment too long as the world tilted, and when they pried their eyes open again the villain was staring at them with something the hero was too out of it with pain and possibly delirium to identify. Their gaze drifted back to the blood smeared on the door, and the villain’s grip tightened on the hero’s bicep–when had they grabbed the hero’s bicep?–until the hero’s gaze returned to theirs.

The villain said something, but there was a roaring that had started up in the hero’s ears. They seemed to take the uncomprehending blink the hero gave them in return for an answer anyways, and guided them down until they were both sitting on the cool wood. A tug, and the hero was resting against their own propped up knees, villain’s hand still firm on their arm.

“How much blood did you lose?”

It was like screaming underwater, the hero reasoned. Or through a mirror. But they heard it nonetheless, and that was their villain, and even in hatred and war they would always answer them.

“Was ‘supposed to be counting?” If they had any more energy–or maybe slightly more blood–in their body, the slur to their own words would have been concerning.

The villain’s lips pursed into a thin line, and the hero felt them begin to run an assessing hand over their injuries, cataloguing them, brow furrowing further with every second.

“M’sorry,” they managed, tongue thick. The villain didn’t pause.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your door,” they managed. The villain stopped them from raising their head from their knees. “And your–porch.”

“I don’t give a shit about either of those things,” the villain said, simply, easily. Like it was nothing. Like they didn’t feel the weight of it as they threw it into the air.

The villain sat back on their heels, clearly having learned what they wanted from the hero’s injuries.

When the hero didn’t immediately look at them, the villain grabbed their chin, gently turning it until the hero faced them.

“How far did you walk,” they said slowly, and the hero had never been more grateful for anything in their life.

“Four miles,” the hero said, and they couldn’t hear their own voice above the roaring, but the villain obviously could from the way their eyes darkened.

The hero wanted no part in making the villain angry again–I never want to see you again, do you hear me? If you ever try to talk to me again I will kill the both of us, I promise you that–, but when they attempted to push themselves up to leave, the only thing they managed was a piteous whine and a stab of pain so intense they forgot to breathe.

“Idiot,” the villain hissed. But oddly, the hero didn’t sense any anger coming from the villain.

They blinked–too long, again–and found themselves in the villain’s arms as they walked through the house. Their head lolled back onto the villain’s shoulder, and the villain glanced down as if–to make sure the hero was okay. That they were conscious, and breathing.

Oh.

Oh.

The villain wasn’t angry.

They were afraid. For the hero.

Which didn’t make any sense, because–

I never want to see you again–

“You’re mad at me,” the hero reasoned, and it came out half strangled and petulant. The villain looked down at them, and the hero caught the tiniest flinch in their jaw.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” the hero whispered, and the villain flinched.

“I wanted to stop this from happening.” The villain settled them onto a bathroom counter, lights flickering on as the hero leaned back against the mirror. Blood began to dry, sticky, between their fingers.

The hero’s mouth went dry, and it caught in their throat when they tried to swallow it.

“You could have just left me there.” Their voice only shook a little bit, but the villain’s head still snapped up from where they had been digging through a drawer.

“What?”

“On the porch,” the hero clarified, clearing their throat. The lump didn’t go away, and they had begun shaking at some point, and they couldn’t stop. “If you didn’t want to deal with me you could have just left me there–”

The villain’s face had darkened into something the hero almost didn’t recognize. 

“I would burn the world for you, and you think I would leave you to die on my porch?”

“You said you didn’t want this to happen.”

“No, that’s not–” the villain rubbed a hand over their brow, and the hero winced at the blood it left behind. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to keep you from going to that stupid event and getting hurt. I knew it was going to blow.”

“I would have gone anyway.”

The villain stilled. “I thought maybe if you never wanted to see me again, and you knew I was there…”

“I would,” the hero repeated. “Have gone anyway.”

The hero watched as the villain’s face rippled through a dozen emotions, settling onto something unidentifiable.

“Why?”

“Because you were there,” the hero said easily, shrugging one shoulder. Because when it came to the villain, it really was that easy. They could scream, and shout, and hold a knife to the hero’s throat, and the hero would still follow them into hell. That was their villain.

The villain looked like the hero had stabbed them, face draining of color. Their fingers went white around the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“What,” the villain’s voice was hoarse.

“I went because I was hoping you would be there,” the hero said honestly

“Stop,” the villain raised a hand between them, a shield, voice breaking. They sucked in a breath, then another, like they were trying to keep themself from breaking down onto the tile.

“You would have gone to the event no matter what, just to see me,” the villain said slowly, and the hero nodded

“Yes.”

“Even though I screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“And told you I hated you.”

“Villain, please–”

“Now you know,” the villain interrupted, voice incredibly soft. “Why I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero forgot to breathe for a moment, tongue going numb in their mouth. The villain couldn’t mean–

They blinked for a moment too long, and then the villain was standing between the hero’s knees, hand on their chest.

“You love me,” the hero said a moment later.

“Ruinously,” the villain agreed.

“So you–”

“I was trying to save your life,” the villain’s hands were gentle as they began to patch up the hero’s side. “And now I’m saving your life in a new and unanticipated way. But there is nothing you could ever do to stop me from saving your life.”

The hero’s heart clenched. 

“Really?”

The villain caught their chin, eyes boring into the hero’s. They brushed a piece of hair off the side of the hero’s face.

“Really.”

The hero sighed, and the villain caught them as they slumped.

“I thought you hated me,” the hero said, and they hated how raw they sounded. The villain made a choked little noise.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hero sniffed.

“Don’t do it again.”

The villain simply hummed, and smoothed the ends of a bandage down against the hero’s abdomen. The hero could feel their hands shaking.

You scared me.

A second later, their hands settled on either side of the hero’s head, and the villain rested their face into the hero’s hair. They pressed a kiss to the hero’s temple, tension easing from their shoulders.

I’m sorry.

The hero clutched the front of the villain’s shirt between their hands, drawing them closer. The villain went willingly, loose limbed with affection and the rapid draining of terror from their system.

“I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero had never believed anyone more.

[the-bar-sinister]

Google, you get points this once for understanding the character but that is still not a correct suggestion.

[solalunar-eclipse]

Sonadow Snippets #2

In which Sonic returns the favor.

| One |

Shadow’s eyes were carefully trained on Sonic as the blue hedgehog raced through the forest, jumping over roots that sprouted out from the ground and spin-dashing whenever he could in an effort to gain momentum. Of course, Shadow was right by his side, the jets of his skates hissing in rhythm with his strides…but this particular time, the more serious of the two never pulled ahead.

For once, this wasn’t a race.

Instead, Shadow was following Sonic on a path only he knew, waiting to see exactly what lay at the end. After the time when Shadow had invited Sonic to come watch him skate atop a lake out in the middle of nowhere, it hadn’t taken long at all for him to receive an offer in return. Sonic had come up to him one day while he was out picking up some odds and ends for Omega as a favor (apparently his friend had gotten himself temporarily banned from his favorite hardware store but couldn’t handle going without his usual supply of materials to tear apart). Sonic had been his usual direct self, just asking “Hey, do you want to go somewhere with me this Friday?”.

Of course, Shadow had requested a few more details, preferring to know such things as “When, exactly?” and “Why?” before he agreed. Sonic’s response to the latter had more or less made up his mind, however.

“I really appreciated you showing me your skating spot the other day, and…I wanted to show you something too.”

After that, how could he say no?

Of course, this had all come after Sonic offered (seemingly out of nowhere, at the time) to take part of the massive stack of various wooden boards, pieces of plastic, and a strange number of PVC pipes currently threatening to fall out of Shadow’s arms. As an artificially engineered lifeform, he might have been stronger than most, but even he couldn’t hope to win a fight against gravity with a haul that unwieldy.

After that, Shadow had agreed to show up to Sonic’s proposed meeting place, but insisted that “you’d better not be late”, which of course set off a lighthearted argument over whether or not the famously titled “fastest thing alive” was in fact ever late to anything. (Sonic said no to preserve his pride, Shadow said yes based on testimonials he’d heard secondhand through Rouge.)

But Sonic certainly hadn’t been late for this. He’d shown up at the appointed meeting spot even before Shadow had, something that was quite impressive considering the alien hedgehog’s tendency to be almost frighteningly punctual.

And now, the two were running through the forest together, as Shadow awaited the place Sonic considered so important.

All of a sudden, Shadow saw brighter sunlight up ahead—and then burst out of the tree line just behind Sonic into an open field. His momentum sent him tearing past Sonic, as a matter of fact, who had stopped in the middle of the field, apparently having reached his final destination. Shadow quickly turned into a wide arc, slowly decreasing his speed as he looped out, around, and back towards Sonic, before finally kicking his skates forward and coming to a stop himself.

“Pff, show-off.” Sonic teased, smirking.

“I just needed to find a way to burn off my speed,” Shadow insisted, not mentioning that he did generally prefer to do so in an artistic way when possible. “It’s not my fault you stopped without saying anything.”

“I did so say something, you must not have heard me.”

Shadow sighed, before letting it go for once. “So, what did you want to show me, anyway?”

Sonic gestured out to the field, which Shadow hadn’t looked at properly yet, first blinded by the sun and then focused on stopping himself. He turned in the direction Sonic had moved, and…

…it really was a special place.

This was the kind of field he’d begun to suspect only existed in storybooks and paintings of days gone by, after several years getting used to life down here on the planet. Most fields were filled with grass so tall he could barely see, or were patchy with dirt and mud amongst the green. This one, however, was covered in lush green grass, among which grew a veritable bounty of wildflowers.

It took him a long moment to think of what to say, and even then, it didn’t feel like much. “It’s beautiful.” he said, and then tried to add something more. “I…appreciate you bringing me here.”

Sonic beamed at him, leaning forward eagerly. “And this is just the beginning! Come on, we gotta get further out!”

Shadow followed Sonic as he walked further into the field, occasionally spinning around and walking backwards just to get a better view of everything. He’d always shoot Shadow a smile whenever he did that, too, and Shadow would dip his head slightly in response. It became almost comforting after the first couple of times, a silent little call-and-response.

You still liking it?

Yes.

Hey there!

Hello.

Glad you came.

I am too.

Eventually, they found one particular spot (Shadow knew it was specific because he saw Sonic lining up his position with a couple of landmark hills and rocks), and both stopped right there, at the top of one of the low, rolling curves in the earth. Sonic sat down cross-legged, before falling backwards and lying down, kicking his legs out as he did so. After a moment where he looked expectantly upwards at Shadow, the alien hedgehog lay down delicately, easing himself into it a little more than his companion.

For a while, they just lay there together in silence, staring up at the vibrantly blue, cloudless sky. Shadow sighed, feeling the warmth of the sun as it rapidly soaked into his dark fur.

Soon enough, he closed his eyes, just basking in the heat and letting his breathing slow down. It was sometimes difficult for him to stay grounded in the present moment, always ruminating on the past or trying to plan ahead for the future. Whenever he could feel his thoughts starting to wind up, though, he would just open his eyes again, tilt his head to the side, and try to count all the different colors and flowers that he could see in the field.

After a few more moments, Sonic spoke up. “I knew you’d be the perfect guy to do this with.”

“Did you?” Shadow asked, his voice hushed. He didn’t want to disturb the stillness of the moment.

“Yeah. I know we hang out a lot because we can keep up with each other…but that goes for the slow times as well as the fast ones.” Sonic answered.

Shadow let out a slow exhale. “Indeed. It’s more difficult to slow down mentally rather than physically, but when I can, it’s very much appreciated.”

“Is now one of those times?” He heard a shifting over to his right, and turned to see Sonic’s eyes looking at him, somehow a more vibrant green than the grass beside him.

“I’m doing my best. It’s a lovely place.” Shadow said softly.

Sonic smiled, much more peacefully than his usual grins. “One of the best parts of saving the world is getting to enjoy it after. You made this place possible, just as much as I ever have. I appreciate that.”

Shadow felt his face soften and relax slightly, and though he wasn’t sure what it looked like, the way Sonic’s eyes widened told him that it was a rare sight. “Thank you, Sonic. For bringing me here, and for your words.”

“Anytime, Shadow. Anytime at all.”

[universe-on-her-shoulders]

Prompt: Martha Jones spots The Fourteenth Doctor around London doing a mundane thing like food shopping. Thank you :)

At first, Martha wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise him; she’d know that hair and that side profile anywhere, even if he was now clad in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt instead of the long coat she’d been so used to. He was holding a jar of jam, reading the ingredients with bright interest, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be in Tesco Express at ten o’clock on a Thursday night shopping for preserves; the basket beside him contained further mundanities like bread and milk, and she was so baffled by all of this that she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t him. It couldn’t possibly be him. He was a Time Lord, for god’s sake; he didn’t do dull things like buy pints of semi-skimmed milk or reduced Kingsmill white loaves.

But then he turned away from the shelf, sticking the jar in his basket, and the look on his face took her breath away. For several seconds she surveyed him as he continued to be unaware of her presence, and she tried to put her finger on what had changed. It was the eyes, she thought; there had been so many ghosts behind them when she’d first known him, and now he looked almost… well, serene. Calm. There were no spectres weighing heavily on his shoulders; there was no lingering pain in the easy, contented expression on his face as he scooped up his basket from his feet – still clad in Converse, because some things could never change – and then finally caught sight of her.

“Oh,” he said, the syllable hanging in the air between them for a moment, and she couldn’t read it; was he pleased to see her? Angry? Sad? Guilty? Was he about to cut and run? Then he beamed from ear to ear, really sincerely beamed, and held out his arms to her for – no, that couldn’t be right. He wanted a hug? Since when had he been a hugger? “Martha Jones!”

“Doctor,” she said reservedly, looking him up and down; he was older than he’d been since she last saw him, but all of the tension and impatient anxiety that he’d held within him seemed to have dissipated in the interceding years. Questions crowded her mind; questions about time and space and clothes and the air of contentment and – “Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?”

“Oh,” he said again, with dawning comprehension. “We’re out of bread.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“Oh,” he repeated for a third time, then ran a hand through his hair before chancing a glance at the checkouts, and for one awful moment she thought he might be about to bolt. “It’s sort of a long story, actually. Why don’t we pay and find a pub, or something? Unless you’ve got somewhere to be… is Mickey expecting you?”

“He can wait,” she said with amusement, irrationally touched that he’d remembered. “Yeah, alright. Let’s pay.”

“Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?” he enquired, flipping the question back on her with some of the old cheekiness that she was used to. “That’s the real question.”

“Staying with mum for a few weeks while we have the kitchen redone,” she told him as they headed towards the self-checkouts; she started scanning her items while he did the same at an adjacent terminal, and she half expected him to sonic it, or in some way cheat it – space cubes, or god knows what else – but instead he took out an honest-to-god wallet and tapped a perfectly normal credit card on the reader. Her surprise must have shown, because he shot her a sidelong grin as he bundled up his groceries in a canvas tote bag and hefted it onto his shoulder as she swiped her Clubcard and did the same.

“Bit different to the old days, isn’t it?” he said ruefully, and she laughed.

“Yeah, never had you down as a wallet sort of man.”

“It was a present. I lost my last four credit cards.”

“That sounds more like you.”

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he… giggles.

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

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

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

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

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

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

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

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

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

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

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

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

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

The Joker just laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

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

He's crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

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

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

Yeah. This is fine.

-

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

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

How mysterious with not telling us the ships that come with the Titels for your WIPs 😂💜 Love it.

I Bet "Anatomy lesson" is with Law?? 👀 Please Tell us more

@daydreamer-in-training yessss! It's so much more fun this way! 😅 and you are right! It is a Law x Fem!Reader story. It's part of my birthday requests with the prompt: "What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me?"

Law is inexperienced in this one, but he is an excelent doctor and knows his anatomy very well! 😏 He'll want to try out some theory on you, hence this will be very NSFW... here's a snippet:

“Captain.” You murmured, trying to sound alluring and cursing at the wicked croak that left your lips.  Law lifted his gaze and turned his chair slightly to the side, so you used the opportunity to lean on his desk. He tilted his head, clearly curious as to what you were doing. You then leaned forward, lips inches away from him, and the strong scent of disinfectant and pine soothed you. It was his scent. “What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me?” This time your words came out in a sultry whisper, your breath kissing his lips in a soft promise. Law locked eyes with you, something dark passing through them and your breath hitched as he raised his hand to eye level. You prepared yourself for the surge of shock when he pressed his lips against yours, his hand already near your cheek… then he opened his lips and… “Room. Shambles.”  With a soft plop you were sitting in your own bed. No Law, no kiss, no confession, just you, in a time-out. “What the fuck?”

[veroinfaciem]

DQ Brothers

Time travel swapped AU

TW: brief description of dissociation 

Two weeks and fifty miles away, on the quiet, insignificant shore of the Cubic Island Cora-san worked up the courage and asked him – no, not Cora-san, Rosinante, it's little Rosi now – asked him what is this symbol they're wearing. The ��pretty smile' as he called it, with that high-pitched, childish voice so different from the low and raspy sound coming from the throat full of cigarette smoke. A tiny finger pointed out to his chest, where the tattoos curled in swirls around the small circle with three dots and lines he'd designed and got inked so long ago, ‘It's here too, is it something special?’ and Law…

…Law refills the third cup of coffee and takes a bitter sip. Face twists into a grimace, he adds sugar then, two shallow spoons, because he somehow forgot about them with the little Cora-sa- Rosi's words bouncing in his head and causing ruckus. 

How can he answer? 

Because of you. It's you, it's you-

He cannot say that. 

He can't-

The next sip is sweet and burning his tongue and Rosinante is looking at him from behind a thick, circular window of the messroom’s double door. He's standing on tiptoes, Law notices, has to, he's too small, too tiny to reach the glass otherwise (Corazón was three meters tall and he dwarfed Law with his shadow alone, hide him inside the mess of black feathers completely, whispers about the cure falling relentlessly from the smiling lips). Rosi ducks his head right back when their glances cross. 

Law is making Cora-san nervous. 

Law bites his tongue and strangles the urge to hiss out profanities. Vicious and creative curses directed, mostly, at himself.

Because he didn't answer then, when the seemingly innocent question was asked, just blinked back the memories of snow and I love you, Law and swallowed the hammering heartbeat down the suddenly constricting throat. ‘Later,’ he was able to choke out, which he attributed to the congenital willpower honed painfully through all these years, ‘I'll tell you later,’ before he turned around and just… left.

The walk after that was kind of a blur full of mirages swapping between the guttural past and impossible present, until he found himself standing in the middle of a clearance. A town square, his mind supplemented, we're up North, Gereteth port, Cubic Island. He traced the path of the sunbeams sliding along the mismatched cobblestones, until he vaguely remembered how he got there and… and why he left the sub in the first place. To clear his head after… after. Judging by the sun and the ancient looking horologe hanging down from the clock tower, he lost approximately forty to fifty minutes. An hour, and a half, maybe. And based on the apprehensive glances thrown his way, most of that time Law spent staring, unseeing, at the local marketplace. Wonderful. He reluctantly opted to come back, before any guard he spotted glaring at him from here and there unwisely decided to be brave enough to question Law's behaviour with force, rather than words. He didn't want to make a mess from such a cozy little town and bring unnecessary attention to his crew and the newly acquired charges. 

He went back, steps gaining weight with every meter closer to the yellow sheathing glinting in the sun. 

Ignoring a couple of questioning looks from his semi-concerned bunch of idiots, he went down to the messroom, blissfully empty, and brewed himself a cup of coffee. 

And another one. 

And another.

And then Cor- Rosi-san came. 

And Law, nowhere near ready even after all this time, doesn't know what to do.

He has to sort out this tangled mess before it can grow to unnecessarily ridiculous proportions. He's a fucking pirate with a bounty worth millions of belli, Surgeon of Death who ripped out more hearts than he can count, he can't break because of one silly question-

Law can hear Rosinante's boots shuffling behind the door, tiny hands undoubtedly entwined into a nervous knot.

He doesn't have to imagine Penguin's pointed glance and Bepo's beady eyes going all watery to feel guilty for the impromptu escape his mind decided to perform today.

This is stupid. 

His chest tightens, something dark coiling inside, sounding almost like a chuckle festooned with pink feathers and thunderclap of gunshots.

I love you, Law.

Leave him alone.

He's free. He's free.

Law sets down the half-finished mug on the counter, comes to the door and cracks them open.

[tearosesarts]

THURSDAY

TODAY

IS

THURSDAY

[fanaticsnail]

WIP Wednesday (Friday)

Thank you @rorywritesjunk for the tag. I am so looking forward to the Howl's Au you're doing!

Here is a cut from the next installment of Doffy's pollen I've been working on for the past little while. If there's something on my WIP list you're curious about, I'm happy to give a little snippet of what I've been chipping away at.

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes: Doflamingo x Reader Part 2

Synopsis: You've been invited to a soiree at the World Government HQ at the request of your friend, Maria, who is attending with her latest beau, Bogard. Doflamingo intentionally didn't ask you to attend on his arm, and is attempting to make you jealous by bringing two of his concubines with him. You decide to 'get even' by suggesting Sir Crocodile aid you in making him jealous in return.

Word Count: 460 (Just a snippet of a larger fic)

Context: You and Doflamingo have a love-hate relationship. He loves you, you hate him. He tried to drug you with the dust of the lust plant, only for your drinking glasses to be swapped at the last minute. He was in need of a reprieve and coerced you to "help him out". You did, but it doesn't make you hate him any less.

What to expect in this next installment: Drinking, jealous Doflamingo, sloppy drunk Doflamingo, pathetic Doflamingo, kissing Sir Crocodile, enjoying the company of Sir Crocodile, Doflamingo cornering you in a private room....

“Sir Crocodile,” you arch your back further on the bar and look up at him through your eyelashes, “Would you be up for a little game?” He arches his brow up, placing his cigar in his teeth before breathing in a gulping lungfull of sour smoke.

“Up to no good again are you?” He asked, the cool rumble of his voice shaking your spine in joyful anticipation. You nodded, subtle enough not to draw attention away from Doflamingo as he continued consuming his concubines’ mouths vigorously. “State your terms,” Sir Crocodile asked with a light purr.

“An exchange, sir,” you cocked your head, playfully biting your lip as you hummed at him, “I’ll buy you a glass of anything you want, if you would grant me a single kiss.” Sir Crocodile’s interest peaked, his eyes widening ever so slightly as you continued your suggestion. 

“Doflamingo is attempting to make me jealous,” you noted, prompting Crocodile to look at him from the corner of his eye, “And I simply do not care.” Crocodile hummed in thought, enjoying another deep drag from his cigar, nodding at you to resume your explanation. 

“I don’t want him, and I need him to know I don’t want him,” you confessed as Crocodile placed his cigar in the steel tray beside him, “I would rather chew glass than endure his attention a moment longer, so I thought perhaps if I were to enjoy the attention of another,” you drew up your index and middle fingers on the bar, playfully walking the digits atop the mahogany surface, “He might leave me in peace.” 

“And I was the easier mark to make between all those here present?” Sir Crocodile hunched down to your level, looking deeply into your eyes with his stalking orbs. 

“Not at all, sir,” you smirked, eyes darting between his with flirtatious mischief, “I chose you because I thought, one: Sir Crocodile would likely need something interesting to cure his boredom amongst the marines and fellow warlords,” you inched your fingers ever closer to his golden hook, looking down at it while you hovered your fingertips over the metallic surface, “And, two: Sir Crocodile is the most handsome man in this room, and it would be an absolute delight to hold his attention, even if naught for a moment.” 

A slow chuckle emitted from deep within his throat, his eyes falling half-lidded as his smile grew wider and more playful beneath his scarred cheeks. 

“A single drink for a single kiss,” he confirmed with a curt nod, his right hand collecting yours from atop his hook and pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, “Or a bottle of my choosing, and you would be more than welcome to continue singing my praises atop my knee for the night, Princess.”

[thisisallthehattersfault]

Pops has always smelled like peaches. It was the first thing Marco had noticed about the man, way back when he’d been nothing but a panicked pup stowing away on the wrong ship. The crew had been stupid enough to pick a fight with Whitebeard, and Marco had been cowering behind a stack of barrels, hoping the violence would pass him by, when all of a sudden he’d been scooped up and draped over the shoulder of an absolutely massive pirate, and Marco would have probably passed out from the panic if he hadn’t been so completely thrown off-guard by the rich, thick scent of an Omega.

Marco had still had a pup’s nose at the time, so the scent didn’t really register as much more than sweet and fruity and safety, comfort, I have you now. After his first rut, he’d scaled up Pops’s coat and stuck his face in the man’s neck and marveled at the smell of peaches and cream and strong black tea, caramel and cloves. He’d immediately gotten scent-drunk off the warm, rich sweetness of the old man’s affection, and the only reason he didn’t tip back and fall right off his shoulder is because Pops reached up in time to catch him.

Omegas are pretty rare on the seas. Not as much as the World Government tries to make them out to be of course, but there is some truth to the stereotypes; if you run into an Omega traveling with a pirate crew, it’s even odds they’re on that ship against their will. Not that that’s any less true with any other type of criminal, of course. Gangsters on land and pirates at sea and nobles in their feasting halls, it’s always the same — bullies go for the easy target, for the weak and the vulnerable, the young and the desperate and the naive. They fall on the feeble like ants to a corpse, and pick you clean.

It had honestly scared Marco at first, how open Whitebeard was about his sex. The man didn’t take scent-blockers. He didn’t bind his chest. When his heats came — and they came like clockwork every three months, because he wasn’t on suppressants either — he’d bundle himself and most of his small crew away into his nest, and yowl shamelessly for food or cuddles or for someone to start up a song. Part of the reason it took so long for Marco to accept that this was a permanent thing, that Whitebeard was keeping him and Marco didn’t need to keep a bag packed and an eye on the exit, was because he was so, so sure the loud, unruly, shameless Omega would be taught a lesson soon enough.

It had scared him, frustrated him. Made him wary. Nobody is allowed to be that free, he’d wanted to explain to Whitebeard, who for some reason just didn’t seem to get it. Nobody is allowed to be that happy with themselves. You’re too loud. You’re too proud. You’re too comfortable in your own skin. It doesn’t matter that you’re big and strong, they’ll kill you.

They’ll kill you, and I’ll be on my own again.

Eventually, somewhere between the second and the twentieth would-be challenger Whitebeard wiped the floor with, Marco started to realize that the man was more than big and strong, he was powerful. Powerful enough, maybe, to be loud. Powerful enough to be free, without worrying that someone would cage him for it. Marco watched the man who called him son conquer impossible challenges and defeat unbeatable enemies like it was easy, and somewhere along the line he forgot to hold onto his fear. Marco stopped sleeping with his shoes on, he unpacked that bag he’d been hiding in his locker, and then one day when the sun was high and the waters calm and Pop’s scent was syrupy-sweet with happiness, Marco had said “Pops-yoi? Would you bond me?”

And Whitebeard had. It was a little awkward — his fangs are long enough to puncture clear through Marco’s throat — but Whitebeard had been so, so careful, piercing the scent gland in Marco’s neck with the tip of one fang and injecting the venom deep into his blood stream. Then, to Marco’s stunned disbelief, Pops had picked him up and draped him over his shoulder and asked for a bite of his own.

That’s how it starts. An Omega with no pack and a boy with no parents and the peach-sweet summer scent now sunk into the both of them, on a rickety ship that won’t survive the year and with a handful of scavenged crew-mates that will either leave or choose to stay forever before that year is up. Those that choose to stay practically line up when they see the bond wounds on Marco and Pops, clambering for a chance to bite and be bitten. By the time they’re in Water 7 buying a used ship (it will be years still before the Moby is commissioned) Marco is a part of something he can’t remember ever being a part of before.

A pack.

[1singulargrape]

yuuji cannot use a chair to save his life

Sukuna was sitting on the floor, his upper arms resting on the couch behind him. His head was tilted to the side as it rested on his fist, and he lazily looked at the screen in front of him.

Yuuji was playing a video game, a "shooter game" with many colors and sounds that looked more like the mess the brat watched on his phone rather than anything coherent. Trying to follow along made Sukuna's head spin but there were a few things that were easy to catch on.

Yuuji's character exploded into a colored puddle, and without missing a beat Sukuna laughed at him. "You suck at this," he added.

Yuuji turned to glare at him, straining his neck while doing so, "I haven't played in months and the other team has a sniper, so if I don't try to move up we're never getting back mid."

He turned back at the sound of his character respawning, "And my team only has short to mid-range weapons so we're at a disadvantage here."

Sukuna couldn't be bothered to understand what any of that meant. "I'm only hearing excuses. If you were actually good at this game of yours you wouldn't need teammates to win."

"It's a multiplier game, having teammates is the whole POINT!" He screamed the last word as he narrowly evaded an attack that would have surely got him killed again, exploding his opponent in the process. His momentary glee was quickly crushed as his character also exploded for seemingly no reason.

Sukuna didn't try to hide his chuckles while the young man anxiously looked at the map while respawning. The match ended before he could get onto the field again.

Despite the general chaos of the game Sukuna only needed one look to know the results. He smiled with all his teeth, poking at Yuuji's temple with his free hand, "Maybe you should give up for now. What is it? The fifth loss in a row?"

"Oh, shut up," he fell back, landing on Sukuna's chest, "I just need to shake the rust off," he closed his eyes for a moment, knowing how to queue for another match without looking.

Sukuna huffed fondly, "You've been saying that for the past 30 minutes, brat."

Yuuji didn't add anything, only pouting a little. He made his character jump up and down with the hand he still had on the controller. Sukuna tightened the arms he had warped around Yuuji's waist, filling the gap until the younger man sat back up for the next match.

.

.

Yuuji was on his phone, checking over his social medias, laughing at memes and catching up with the tea of strangers online while sending out anything interesting to his friends

What had started out as him sitting beside Sukuna was now him halfway over the other man's laps, his upper back and neck held on a massive arm and hand.

Sukuna was reading old history books, saying he wanted to "catch up" to what happened while he was sealed. One time he mentioned to Yuuji how lacking historical records felt compared to the reality of life during his time, but that didn't stop him from reading them; in fact having a basis to compare how things were when he was still alive compared to what was recorded granted him a far better understanding of other recordings, according to him.

Yuuji didn't really get why he'd spend so much time reading from the source when there were so many videos online detailing their country's history. He had provided Sukuna with a phone for that reason but he only used it for 2 weeks before permanently retiring it to a drawer saying that "it was no wonder the brat was so stupid with the amount of trash accessible through that thing”.

Not what Yuuji had expected when Sukuna had spent those 2 weeks with an average of 12 hours of daily screentime, but hey.

While he was scrolling, Yuuji came across something that made him grin. "Hey, old man!"

Sukuna turned one eye to look at him which was enough acknowledgement for Yuuji, "Look at this," he turned his phone to him.

A picture of an adult tiger lying on its side with a cub pawing at its face was shoved into Sukuna's vision. "It's us."

Yuuji was grinning from ear to ear, giggling to himself. He took back his phone after receiving a hum of acknowledgement and they both resumed their respective activity.

Once Yuuji was fully focused on his screen again, Sukuna allowed himself to smile.

.

.

"Are you done showing off?" Yuuji asked annoyed. As his answer, Sukuna pushed back, going from doing push-ups on one hand to one finger and it only pissed off Yuuji even more.

Originally Yuuji was simply working out a little and was joined by Sukuna who not only matched Yuuji's moves but also made a point of one-upping him at every turn.

Yuuji watched from the side as Sukuna finished his set of 1 finger push-ups, wholly unimpressed as he was pretty sure he could do the same.

He simply knew that Sukuna would one-up him again somehow and he didn't want his light work-out session to turn into their usual competitions.

"Is that all you got brat?" Sukuna was smiling with all his teeth, still holding a perfect plank position, "Was such a simple move enough to scar you into surrendering?"

Well, Yuuji couldn't let that slide. "I just think that this was way too easy for you."

Yuuji walked closer and got on Sukuna's back, sitting in the middle of it. He knew that a man who could carry entire buildings wouldn't be bothered by his weight, but he was still annoyed by the fact that the other did not budge. Not even breaking a sweat.

"Is that it?" Sukuna changed the arm holding him and started another set. "This is still a lightwork brat. Unless you also want me to sit on your back as well to see if you can match the strength of a single one of my arms?"

"I can carry you pretty easily you know that?" Yuuji added with a frown.

"I'd love to see this," he added mockingly which only made Yuuji angrier.

The older man finished his set. A bit passed and he eventually laid down on floor, Yuuji still on his back.

"Hey what are you doing now?"

"Given how comfortable you seem up there I have decided to claim victory this time and let you enjoy yourself. How benevolent of me, I know."

Determined not to leave this as a loss, Yuuji got up and immediately deadlifted Sukuna off the ground.

.

.

Most beds weren't comfortable to Sukuna, made in sizes too small for his bulk and extra limbs, yet sometimes he'd ditch the massive one in his room to sleep in Yuuji's.

And what could Yuuji do if he was tired as well? With Sukuna lying on his back, arms splayed open and legs dangling off the edge, there wasn't that much place left for him to sleep on.

Yuuji crawled up the bed and laid directly on Sukuna's chest, hair tickling the bigger man's chin. He wrapped his arms around the other's neck while 2 hands placed themselves on the small of his back. 'For stability' they both thought.

Like this they both drifted to sleep, hearts close to one another and beating in sync to a slow and steady rhythm.

.

.

.

.

On some day they'll go picnicking together, as if they weren't spending enough time with one another.

They ate, they talked, then they both fell silent, a comfortable sensation covering them both as they simply enjoyed each other's presence as well as the nature around them.

Sukuna's head was laid on Yuuji's laps. Gentle fingers ran through his hair and massaged his scalp; the sun kept them warm and a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees around them.

Yuuji had already zoned out, moving his hands automatically in a way that felt right to him, whereas Sukuna had started to drift off to sleep.

Small moments of peace they wish could last forever