empty victories

A Romance of Three Kings

Despite being rescued from certain death, Urie seems less than happy. Note the dialogue exchange between the two of them. 

“An explanation, to you? You think I can forgive you like this?”


(No, I can’t. No, I can’t!!)

Urie ehoes the same sentiment of being unable to forgive him, and the elipses show a clear hesitance. 

Why does he say those things though, and what are we meant to take from Urie’s apprehension. 

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which rooster teeth worker should you fight by me
  • geoff ramsey: do it. he looks scary but he's not. he is afraid of snakes so if you wear a shirt that has a snake on it he will lose his powers. however if you catch him drunk, run. but if he's sober, do it. fight geoff ramsey but be careful
  • jack patillo: why would you ever fight jack. he is a perfect ray of sunshine. there is magic in his beard. he is large and made of love and probably like kittens or something. don't do it. don't fight jack
  • michael jones: fight michael. he's a ball of rage and if you let him get close he'll fuck your shit up but you can just put your hand on his forehead and hold him at arm's length while he tries to run at you like a bull. lindsay will probably cheer for you. do it. fight michael
  • gavin free: just sorta punch him in the nose and he'll probably squawk and fall over and start crying. but there will be no glory in fighting gavin free. only sadness. why would you do such a thing. you can fight gavin if you really want to but it will be an empty victory and you should probably rethink your life afterwards
  • burnie burns: don't fight burnie. he's 6'2 and he punched out a horse once. the laws of mortals do not apply to burnie burns and he will fire you even though he's not CEO anymore. don't do it. don't fight burnie.
  • jon risinger: you can maybe fight jon but only if you're okay with losing all your points. depending on what mood he's in he may award you points for winning. fight jon risinger but only if you're feeling lucky
  • gus sorola: he'll probably run away and bitch about you on the next podcast. it would be hilarious to everyone else and you would have brought laughter to the lives of millions. do it. fight gus.
  • joel heyman: you cannot slay a god
  • lindsay jones: you could maybe fight lindsay but only by being sneaky and even then michael would snap your neck if you win. distract her with conveniently placed cat pictures and you could sucker punch her because let's face it, you couldn't take her one on one. maybe fight lindsay but only with prep time
  • ray narvaez jr: he's already dead don't hurt him more
  • chris demarais: do it. fight chris. it'll be hilarious give him a wedgie and hang him off something by his underwear. take his lunch money. buy something cool with it. shove him in a locker. fight chris demarais
  • barbara dunkelman: she's canadian she'll just ascend into her moose form and headbutt ur ass to the nearest tim hortons. don't fight barbara
BTS React to their S/O eating a king crab really fast

I changed the times in some of the reactions so hopefully, that’s okay~ Let’s dive in!


Needless to say, he would be happy and slightly surprised. You were challenged by one of the younger boys and being the competitive person you were, you couldn’t say no.

As you slurped down the giant crab, he felt himself grow hotter and hotter until eventually your yell of victory snapped him out of it. He looked up just in time to see you hold up your empty plate victoriously.

He smiled and cheered along happily.


Originally posted by jjilljj


When you had been challenged by Jungkook to a crab-eating contest, you at first said no way. It wasn’t your style at all. After Jungkook bet one of his pairs of Timberlands you had to admit that you were interested.

Yoongi had tried to stop you but to no avail. There you sat in front of him, stuffing your face with crab. It was all over your face, as your cheeks puffed out from being filled with crab meat.

He sighed and continued to watch until eventually, you finished the whole crab. And with just seconds to spare. Even Jungkook hadn’t finished yet, giving up halfway through and pouting dramatically.

You got up and started crazy dancing while holding your now empty plate.

“Okay, that’s enough dancing for now. I don’t want a crab meat fountain coming out of you. Don’t complain to me if you’re sick.” Yoongi commented nonchalantly, as you turned away from him to cheer.

As soon as you turned away he looked at the other boys and made a ‘give me’ motion with his hand, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“What? You guys lost the bet so pay up.”

Originally posted by missbaptan


When you had been challenged on the broadcast to a crab-eating contest, you couldn’t exactly say no. You loved to prove people wrong and all the boys were saying you couldn’t do it.

As you started eating, the harder it became to hold back. Eventually, you were practically vacuuming the crab down.

Hoseok sat across from you, slightly disgusted but more so interested in how fast you were eating. Of course, all the boys were pretty surprised when you had half the crab done in 3 minutes.

When you had held up your (now empty) plate, the boys yelled and clapped. Hoseok was the loudest.


He held you and screamed as you laughed.

Originally posted by 901jjk

Rap Monster:

You had challenged yourself. The other boys had laughed and declined your ability to do it. Even Namjoon. They had bet you $10 each that you wouldn’t finish it in under 10 minutes. Scowling to yourself, you decided to prove them wrong.

Ordering the biggest crab they had you got cracking (pun intended) and started slurping down the delicious crab meat.

Namjoon looked at you with wide eyes, watching as you gorged on the giant crab. It had only been 7 minutes when you declared that you had finished. As you proudly held up the empty crab, the boys sighed.

All of them starting handing over the money as you stood there with a smug smile.

“Pay up boys. Never challenge me again.”

Namjoon smiled and pulled you towards him as you counted your bet money.

“Maybe you can slurp something else, babe.”

Originally posted by namjoonsgurl


Jimin laughed as he watched you furiously dug into the crab meat that you had painstakingly gouged out of the crab.

“Yah (Y/N) slow down! You’ll choke!” Jimin laughed again as you glared up at him with your mouth stuffed full of crab.

Jimin kept laughing as he watched you shovel crab meat into your mouth. It had only taken you 10 out of the 15 minutes you were given to finish.

You sighed, leaning back as you pushed your plate away, patting your stomach triumphantly.

“How did you manage to do that, (Y/N)?! I’ve never seen you eat anything more than 2 crab legs!” One of the other boys commented.

“I may or may not have thought of the crab as Jimin.” You commented slyly, giving a wink to everyone.

Jimin blushed as the rest of the boys guffawed. You sauntered up to Jimin and started pulling him away, calling to the rest of the boys behind you,

“I’m off to have a snack. Don’t disturb us!”

Originally posted by sweaterpawsjimin


“GO (Y/N)! YOU CAN DO IT! WHOOP WHOOP!” Taehyung screamed as you ferociously attacked the crab meat with your teeth.

Somehow, he had managed to enter you to be in a crab-eating contest and instead of you refusing, you decided to humor him and try.

You had never thought you would be in the lead though.

“(Y/N) you can do it, baby! Only a couple pieces left!” Taehyung yelled.

You looked down and noticed you had one piece left to eat. Making eye contact with Tae, he smiled and nodded at you.

Grabbing the last piece you ate it. You slammed your hands down on the table triumphantly and yelled!

“I KNEW YOU COULD WIN (Y/N)!” Tae yelled as he ran up to hug you.

“Yeah Tae don’t shake me so hard or you’ll have some crab as well!”

Originally posted by we-have-kookies


“I totally can finish a whole crab you doughnut hole!” You told Jungkook.

He had told you not to order something you wouldn’t be able to finish, to which you took major offense to.

Sure you could barely finish 3 slices of pizza but that’s different. You were absolutely sure you were able to do this. No one was going to stop you.

“Babe what if you get sick. That much food in your tiny belly won’t be good at all.” Jungkook tried to reason with you.

“I can do it though! Just let me try please!” You pleaded using your puppy dog eyes.

“Fine but you have to eat it all. And if you don’t finish in 20 minutes then I’ll finish it for you.” Jungkook said, sighing at your stubbornness.

15 minutes later

“KOOKIE THIS WAS A BAD IDEA!” You screamed with your mouth full of crab.

“Finish it (Y/N) or you lose!” Jungkook chimed back to you.

“Uhhhuhhh.” You moaned in dissatisfaction with your mouth full of crab as you shoved the last piece in your mouth.

“Wow (Y/N), 19 minutes and 45 seconds. You had 15 seconds to spare. I guess you were right. (Y/N)?” Jungkook turned around to look at you after you didn’t answer.

You were leaning back in the chair, holding your stomach and groaning.

“Never again Kookie. Never again.”

Originally posted by theking-or-thekid

There you guys go! I sorta ran out of ideas but hopefully, it’s good enough! Please make sure to request! I ONLY do writing scenarios/reacts for various groups! Just send a request with the group, scenario and my name (Admin Rhi)!

Thanks, guys!

-Admin Rhi

The cultural and political crisis of our day is not due to the fact that there is too much individualism but that what we believe to be individualism has become an empty shell. The victory of freedom is possible only if democracy develops into a society in which the individual, his growth and happiness, is the aim and purpose of culture, in which life does not need any justification in success or anything else, and in which the individual is not subordinated to or manipulated by any power outside of himself, be it the State or the economic machine; finally, a society in which his conscience and ideals are not the internalization of external demands, but are really /his/ and express the aims that result from the peculiarity of his self.
—  Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom

anonymous asked:

Jumping off your amazing Sansa and Sandor meta, do you think Sansa and Tyrion have a possibility of becoming canon? Unlike S*nsan, GRRM seems to like the idea of these two (when Sophie said at Comic Con that they'd be a great power couple, he nodded and smiled) and he did marry them for a reason. If they won't be canon, do you think they'll meet again?

Nope. For starters, I’m about 99.44% certain Tyrion (like almost every POV character) isn’t going to survive, which pretty much negates them becoming canon or ending up together. I also would not read anything into GRRM’s facial gestures on this, he does variants of it all the time. Earlier, when the fandom was smaller, he was much more forthcoming with info but has become much less inclined to do so over the years, so he sure isn’t going to give it away at Comic Con for the tv show.

As for them meeting up again, yes, absolutely.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

AJ, why do we keep trying?

Remember my name from the time I posted it, did you?

For many reasons. Because the only real defeat is surrender. Because doing nothing is both boring and empty. Because for every victory, a new greater battle awaits us, and the only victory we need is the assurance that we’re still fighting.

Because I want to see how it all turns out, and my place in it. And help others get there too. I’ll see you in the sun when we arrive.

Sick on Christmas

Summary: Washington is leaving for one of the most iconic nights of his life. One that would be documented for all history…Yet, it seems like an empty victory without him by his side.
a/n: for Kookie, @kookookarli !
warning: canon musical-era; historic FICTION(aka I have a rough idea what happened but by no means did this actually happen LOL); sick-fic

December was unforgiving this year. The winds howled and bite at raw flesh like hungry wolves trying to get down to the meat with their frosted fangs. It was a cold that was unshakable. It embedded itself deep into the rebellion army as they walked along the campsite. Luckily for them, a good amount of these men knew what the winters were like. Luckily for them, most of the British did not. That had always been a term of advantage this side had graciously considered whenever they were beaten into a corner. This was their land, their home turf. There was so much more to lose for them.

“General!” John Cadwalader strode in on horseback, his eyes squinting as he struggled against the setting sun and the reflective snow-white layer on the ground. George had been standing right outside of a large, tent. The dark green tarp blending into the forest which a few dozen of men called home, and a few hundred strode in before death could come to him. “I heard word from the captains up a few miles by the bank you would be here…ill, are you?” John dismounted and made big strides to their capable general.

He might have been. However it was not illness that plagued his mind nor the anticipation of what was to come. His eyes looked sleepless, empty, his face unreadable other than concern. Nervous, yes that was what Cadwalader would chalk it up to. “No illness, restless. Are we prepared?”

“As instructed, we will be traveling in three crossings. I have some older gentleman who urge us it must be tonight.”

“Must?” George was not one to be rushed, especially now…he needed more time now.

“Yes, this shall beest the warmest night to come for another few dawns. The ice has already thinned, the durham boats will cut through with ease.” These were facts George could not ignore. A long plan finally coming together, the things they had to do to make this attack come this far now it was the time to strike. Strike them in New Jersey as they struck New York. Harder even. That bloodied summer will look pale compared to the color of red that would spill on the snow now. “This first cross…we do this, we can assure for a second, then a third…”

The stakes were so high. It seemed when it came to the war for America the stakes were always high. George didn’t see a battle were it was not win or lose, life or death, there was no middle. There was no simply retreating to how things were once before. “I will cross with the Viriginan troops and Adam Stephen….” Washington began. “Have the men ready by sunset, we need it to be dark enough so that the Queen’s army cannot detect us on the open water…”

“—but light enough so which we can see the ice…most Durham boats were not built to withstand a sail through ice waters…most men cannot swim and if so will not survive longer than mere minutes to the exposure of such frigid temps.” John, steadied and knowing well he was stationed to be among the last to cross was nervous. If they lost this, if they lost Washington…it was done.

George gently clapped his hand over Cadwalader’s shoulder. “Knox…he told me countless times the odds of our crossings success was not in our favor…most of this war hasn’t been.” He gave the man a small squeeze. “Supply the men with muskets and flint, I don’t want a single man unarmed…”

“Yes Sir General.” John saluted and turned away.

“Oh, and Lieutenant.” George stood there posed as John turned to face him. “Victory or Death.”

The password fell on knowing ears, John rose his fist “Victory…or death, sir.”

Good man he was. George hoped for the sake of the men he was taking good men like him would see the end of the war. See wives and children, see a nation and freedom. Suddenly the flood of all he had to do came back to him. The men he was taking with him on the crossing tonight had no idea what they were in store for truly. No one really did, it was only few of mind that could carry such a burden. He could not delay this trip…and soon sunset would be here and he would have to leave…he would have to…

“General” the doctor exited the tent with surprise written on his face. “…have you been waiting out in the open air like this?” He noticed Washington was wearing light winter gear, his uniform with only a cape draped over one shoulder.

Washington gave a curt nod at the on scene doctor. “How is he?”

“Finally got him to sleep…fed him between his fits.” Washington would have laughed if he found Hamilton’s timing to get ill not …worrisome. “Between you and I, sir, I was ready to feed him mallow. His both fevering and suffering from digestional symptoms.”  

“I would like to speak with him—“

“Kind, General, your aide is asleep. He was been bathed and …” honestly the doctor wanted to keep him asleep for as long as possible. Out of many patients he had seen, some who were bloodied and screaming in pain, Alexander was the worse. He argued and probed all of the doctor’s treatments, challenged his diagnosis just so he could leave and join the fray again. Still, George’s face did not look like one who was ready to press the matter again. “as you wish.” The doctor lifted the sheet up for the General, letting the cold slip into the heated tent.

Washington didn’t move until the sheet was closed behind him. The room was stuffy, smelling faintly of sweat and thick with hot air. On a single cot, as instructed, Alex laid there in his bare white under blouses. A two thick blankets pulled to his chest with an icy cold, dripping cloth planted on his feverously pink face. “…Alex…” George muttered walking close, light steps so not to disturb him. He looked so…young.

Though Hamilton had always been young but now especially with silence his age was true. His face pink like a child who had been crying for far too long, even a bit plumper, swollen with illness. Alex always spoke older than he was, he challenged ideals and authority like he was a man that earned that right by living it. Alex was always speaking fast, moving fast, to see him so still. Even his breathing was slowed, like a flutter then a pause…a flutter again…

Was this going to be how Washington last saw him? Was this his final image, the boy—no the man he named his aide. The man closest to him, the man who made it his duty to know Washington’s mind better than George did, was reduced to a pink, supple boy. “Wild be your curls when they’re unfurled by sweat and lack of a wig.” George muttered, his fingers reaching to pinch a particularly chocolaty, brunette curl. He pushed it back and found a stool to sit on beside Alex’s cot. “I must say, you not speaking is a rare sight…the first I believe, I suppose fitting firsts to be lasts.” Washington spoke to Hamilton’s sleeping face somberly.

His eyes scanned over the features of his face. Smooth, hairless, olive tone and warm, a strong nose, pinked lips with a thick cupid’s bow. Strange how features melted away when Alex tensed his face, cocked his mouth into a smirk, his coyly unsettled. It was now in the months George had Alexander by his side.  “I had plans to make you my aide, Alexander.” Washington muttered. Alex would have made a fine aide, if George could stand more victories he had planned to steal Alex from his position of a footman with a gun and equip him with a quill. Keep him by his side…safe.

It was all foolish now. Keeping him safe that is, now that illness gripped him. A force that George could not protect him from, “I sail tonight across the Delaware…if all goes well this will open communication for several more trips before we surprise the British troops. A victory long overdue.”  George spoke soft, his hand moving to Alex’s hands which were neatly folded over his chest. “I know you would have been the first to join if this hadn’t happened. In all honesty now I confess to you and God, I am elated you will not join…this mission…” George didn’t want to say it.

“Could be my last if all fails…”

Uncertainty of tomorrow, Washington had been fighting for as long as he could remember. And even now, in his age, in his command the uncertainty of tomorrow never was an easy reality to swallow. “If I am victorious, if I live to see the new year, I have plans for you. For us, if you live through this night Alexander. I’ll promise you you’ll live through the war with me.” George squeezed his hand tightly. He was ready to leave the young man, whom through letters and personal experience around him, left an imprint on the great general. A stain like ink to cotton, deep, soaking, and permeant.

Alex’s hand twitched, his clammy fingers clasped tightly around George’s hand before he could retreat out of the tent. His eyes opened just enough George could see the slivers of his violent, brown eyes. His eyes darted to George, they held him for a moment as his lips unglued themselves. They trembled and in the hoarsest voice Alex delicately whispered.


“Don’t?” Washington’s heart raced. Don’t what? Don’t go? Don’t fail? Don’t…what could he mean? Alexander, for once in his life, didn’t go into depth. He did not have it in him to explain, leaving George at a loss. He took a long moment, Alex’s eyes still open, his mouth still moving as if to speak. Their eyes held in a moment, George had a laugh dance out his lips. “I can’t wait for you, I have to go tonight.”

It took him a minute, but he understood what Alex was getting at. “men…ice…you have to wait…”

“There will be horses there, we’re setting up along the banks. With all taken into consideration, tonight is the night. We cannot wait.”

“George…” Alex closed his eyes, more out of dull anger than sleep.

“Yes, Hamilton.” Washington amused to see even in illness and in a fever induced stupor, Alex still had little regards for him as his superior.

“See you soon.” He closed his mouth and steadied his breathing for some time. George had no doubt Alex would find his way across soon. Hopefully not too soon, he wished Alex would take this time to heal properly or risk succumbing to death now before his legacy was even created.

Washington stood, pulling Alex’s hand to his mouth as he did. “Soon” he repeated, keeping those words in his mind. There were many possibilities for failure, but with Alex waiting to see him soon. There was not a single room to accept anything but success.

On a Christmas night, cold as ice, George stood at the end of his boat waiting as they crossed. Silent was success on that Christmas night.

Part 1 | Part 2

….. I seriously need to practice writing battle/action scenes.

Unlike normal schools, the afternoon classes in UA consisted of classes involving hero trainings, and most of the time that meant special lessons. On other times, such as now, they were instructed to do a light spar with each other. There were good reasons for the seemingly simple activity, but mainly it was to simulate real battles between quirk users and blowing off some steam once in a while.

Oh, and sometimes it’s better to exchange punches to convey something to each other, or so Kirishima had said after a rather heated battle with Bakugou, one that had resulted in many broken bones and burn marks.

“Yo, Todoroki.”

Out of all people, Todoroki sighed inwardly as he turned towards the owner of the rough voice, “Yes?”

Bakugou fumed inwardly at the disinterested reply, “The sparring. Fight me.”

“Why should I?” The ice-fire user asked, still using the same tone.

The other boy grit his teeth in irritation, “What, are you scared? Well, I can’t blame you – at the very least you’re going to escape with an even more disfigured face, if you’re lucky, that is!”

Bakugou knew he touched a nerve when Todoroki’s hand twitched to fix his bangs on his left side. A sinister grin warped his expression when a piercing dark glare returned his challenging gaze. The class had started to notice a rather rare pair having a glaring contest, and when Aizawa asked whether they agreed to be each other’s pair in the sparring match, they both nodded silently.

Everyone cleared away, too afraid to get caught up in the ‘light spar’, especially knowing how messy the fight back at the sports festival had turned out.

“Remember, the goal is to incapacitate or to capture, not to inflict injuries,” their teacher reminded and sighed, as if knowing no one would actually listen to the last part. His students were geniuses, but they all had this tendency to disregard rules, much to his distress.

Bakugou glanced at your direction for a mere second, satisfied at the fact that you were indeed watching intently. He was going to use this opportunity to prove he was stronger by a whole lot of margin and therefore raising your view about him. This was also a good chance to pay Todoroki back for the empty victory he was forced to took the last time they had fought. He was going to win back his pride and your admiration in one strike.

“How childish,” Todoroki’s low and indifferent voice held a venom he had never used before.

Bakugou’s smirk dropped, “What the fuck did you just say?!”

The whistle was blown, signalling the start of the match.

Neither had the leisure to protest at the sudden starting signal. They had learned since the start that nothing were fair in the world of heroes and villains. Only the strong could survive, flourish, and reach the top.

The wall of ice barely caught Bakugou as he used the momentum of his explosions to propel his evasion. The recklessly huge output caused frost to cling over Todoroki’s left side, and the white of his breath as he straightened up showed a repeat of their match few months ago.

And yet this time was unlike the previous time they fought; the two-tone haired boy didn’t hesistate in using his flames to regulate his body temperature, and he was more than ready to defend against Bakugou’s barrages of explosions as the boy charged towards him. Ice shields appeared on appropriate timing and angles nullified Bakugou’s attacks. Truthfully if he hadn’t been pissed out of his mind, Bakugou would have felt an ounce of respect at the insane precision Todoroki was showing.

Soon enough the two were wrapped in a deadly dance – one trying to gain distance and the other closing in like a shark onto its prey. The two had known more about each other’s quirk and fighting style throughout the time they spent together in training and their hero duties. This knowledge burned into their minds and affected the way they faced each other, a huge difference from their battle back several months ago in the tournament.

On the flip side, Bakugou knew his classmate hadn’t been running on full power, and it added more oil to his flaming rage.

“Why aren’t you using both of them at the same time, bastard?!! Think you can make me keel over from these flimsy ice?! Don’t fucking underestimate me, you spoiled daddy’s boy!!”

Taunts and raw combat power had always been Bakugou’s specialty, and if Todoroki were only slightly annoyed before, he was now despising the fact that Bakugou knew about him well enough to knew which buttons to push just to spite him.

Todoroki’s eyes flickered to his opponent’s arms when the blond let out an irritated yell. He saw Bakugou’s right arm muscles contract and swung, just as he predicted. With only a split second span to act, his left arm went to guard, and he held the urge to wince as hot searing pain travelled through his senses.

Amidst the pain clouding his mind and weighing him down, his right hand swiftly touched a particular grenade like automation. Shards of ice enveloped half of Bakugou’s right arm in mere miliseconds, thin yet sturdy block of ice clinging stubbornly despite the hot air from the explosion. While Bakugou cursed and stumbled because of the sudden drop in temperature, Todoroki was thrown backwards by the explosive power, and although his arm hurted like hell he felt thoroughly satisfied with the result.

Todoroki fully knew he was close to copying Midoriya’s move he saw long ago in their first mock Battle mission All Might had been supervising, but that was a part of learning, wasn’t it? Besides, the fact that he had sustained damage from a similar move would surely rile Bakugou even more.

And boy how right he was. Bakugou seemed to recognize the situation, and he looked downright murderous at the nostalgic situation. Todoroki couldn’t help but slipped out a tiny smile, the rush of adrenaline fervent against his veins and nullifying the pain on his left arm.

One arm down, one more to go.

He placed his left palm on the ground and watched as a burst of flame travelled from his palm, baring its fangs towards Bakugou. It was the largest output he could manage as of now, and if it was another opponent he was facing, he would’ve feared for their life.

The awed gasp from you drew Todoroki’s attention, his concentration wavered and causing the flames to flicker for a split second. The small opening made enough time for Bakugou to evade, albeit the burn marks and singed clothes on his side, and he had more than enough time to aim his good left hand towards the distracted boy. Dilated red pupils lit aflame with crazed bloodlust as the blond shouted–

Todoroki felt a shiver down his spine and pressed both of his palms to the ground, his instinct screaming danger. He needed shields, and fast.

– Bakugou ripped the safety handle of his customized armor out from its lock.


Aizawa acted faster than both teenagers. Taking his place behind Bakugou, he instantly erased Todoroki’s quirk and kneed the other, which sent the enraged boy’s aim off by a huge margin. The overly powerful explosion burnt a hole into the training building’s wall, and he knew the principal really was going to chew his head off this time.

Seriously, why did he became a teacher?

“Enough,” Your teacher said with finality in his voice, although he still looked as bored as ever as he easily restrained a shouting-and-struggling Bakugou with his special capturing fibers.

“You both fail,” the announcement made Bakugou stood still, frozen, “I have no idea why you never listen, Bakugou. And I honestly expected better from you, Todoroki.”

The former looked away from his gaze, scowling, and the latter’s gaze locked down at the ground. You along with your classmates watched in worry as the two started to realize how much damage they had inflicted on each other and their surroundings. The pro hero sighed in disdain and turned towards you, catching you in surprise.

“[l/name]. Get moving and bring one of them to the infirmary.”

You blinked at your teacher, “One? But–”

“I’m not risking having these idiots in the same room when they’re clearly after each other’s throat.”

You frowned and your gaze fell upon–

[ A ] Todoroki

[ B ] Bakugou

it had to be expected that the one supporting everyone and telling them, in particular, midousuji, to “endure it” had to experience the harsh bitterness of fate and despair himself to build such an unwavering fortitude

in ishigaki’s case, his honesty and kindness made him reliable to the point of easily having high expectations thrust upon him, “you can surely do it!” doing way more harm than good in situations where ishigaki could not have the slightest grasp on

while in midousuji’s case, he was never encouraged nor supported by anyone, was never told that he could accomplish anything, and if he was told that it was only empty words after a victory he himself worked for having no one to thanks but himself

one had nothing but hope while the other had everything but hope

that’s where they appear as equals, completing each other instead of just being “ace and assist” they give and take what the other needs and ultimately what was so crucial and no one ever dared to give to midousuji : 

a second chance

Vette had known for years that Quinn was Baras’s spy; it seemed such an obvious ploy that Vette had assumed Bryn knew it, too. Bryn, though, for all her Sithyness, was remarkably blind - or at the very least, had a Quinn-shaped blind spot. Another reason Vette hated the man; she could do no right in his eyes, and Bryn always took his reports on Vette as gospel. Vette’s discovery of his less than subtle communiques with Baras had been an empty kind of victory, even when she realised that Bryn had no idea of his disloyalty. It was the worst kind of information - utterly useless. Anything she said would be disbelieved by Bryn on principle - and she’d just end up punished again, punished further.

She’d let that worry go, though - let Quinn make his reports while he and Bryn did whatever fucked up kind of hero-worship dance that Sith and Imps did, and wished for the day that someone would finally stick Bryn with one of her own lightsabers.

finuiwen  asked:

Could you write a drabble 19. “The paint’s supposed to go where?” and 24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.” with Coric+Rex bromance, spiced with some rexsoka? :> Or Cody alternatively if Coric isn't familiar to you.

This sounds like a Starbucks order and I’m all about that life. This was also a harder prompt than I anticipated! I kind of failed on the bromance front, but I hope you like it regardless.

19. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”
24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

There was a word for this, for the empty victory of knowing how the future unfolded, only to long for those discovered facts days, months, or years in the past. “Énouement;” it was a kind of vocabulary confined to the more privileged circles among Coruscanti elite. For as little as Captain Rex even heard the word used (for the record, once or twice by Senator Amidala), he certainly experienced it more than he cared to admit.

Today, for instance. Rex’s past self would’ve happily accepted today’s knowledge about a week ago when General Skywalker looked him in the eye and told him, “You’re the only one I trust to do this,” before handing off an upcoming mission.

It was a joint operation with Commander Cody to the moon of Sijden, coupled with the most uninformative brief Rex had ever received from a rather hassled midshipman. In retrospect, the barebones brief of the lunar environment seemed to fit their surprisingly smooth mission. Until today, when they returned to the 501st flagship. 

The rare feeling of an objective efficiently accomplished fled from Rex’s mind not two minutes into their mandatory post-mission physical in the medbay when Coric screamed, “Get off the beds! Now!” 

It was the loudest Rex heard the medic shout off a battlefield, and the most frightened he’d seen Coric look when not in immediate danger. Rex and Commander Cody, sitting on the medbed next to him, complied, jumping to their feet, mirroring Coric’s expression of fear. They stood frozen, awaiting orders, in their mismatched uniforms– painted lower plastoid armor and black bodysuit tops. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Rex’s voice sounded far from composed; keeping a level tone was impossible when the legion’s head medic barely got words past his own surprise. 

Coric zipped back into his adjoining office. Noises identical to spelunking crashed about as Coric apparently explored every drawer he owned. “You came into contact with the water?!”


Coric’s last statement not ten seconds earlier had been so nonchalant. He didn’t even ask how they felt; he just outright surmised their physicals would be simple due to no exposure to water. 

It seemed innocuous to negate. Rex just as nonchalantly admitted how he and Cody had fallen into a lake on Sijden. And that’s when Coric flipped out.

“Microscopic parasites run rampant in the water on Sijden!” Coric shouted from the next room over, his drawer-slamming matching his vehemence. 

“That was conveniently left out of our brief,” Cody intoned.

And it would’ve been great to know, in hindsight.

“Any exposure to water needs to be examined!” Coric once more bustled into the medbay wearing protective gloves up to his elbows, goggles, and a face mask. “But don’t worry, I’ve just called in the hazmat unit.”

The officers exchanged wide-eyed glances. 

“You what?!” Rex cried, but Coric was already barking orders over the protests.

“Take all your armor off! Stack it here!” The medic didn’t let the fact that he only had basic sanitation spray stop him– he practically hosed down the growing pile of discarded armor with every dispenser he could get his hands on by the time two clones in large yellow protective suits waddled into the medbay.

Specialty squads like the hazmat unit were still an enigma to Rex, and seeing them in full gear gave him pause. Cody seemed to share his hesitance as he observed the new clones with a stiffness mirroring Rex, but Coric enthusiastically waved them in and directed them to the dripping armor pile.

While one investigated the armor with a handheld scanner, the second approached the officers bearing two canisters in each hand.

“We don’t have the tech on this ship to safely scan for microscopic parasites on organics,” the clone said from behind a thin shield of transpariplast. It was just large enough to show his nondescript face inside his yellow hood. “But put this on your skin and it’ll help amplify the scanners we can use.”

The second hazmat soldier joined his brother around the armor, leaving Rex and Cody to exchange glances once more, followed by a mutual, bracing breath.

Rex opened his canister to stare at the potent green paste inside. He grabbed Coric’s arm as the medic passed, pulling him between two possibly contaminated clones. 

“The paint’s supposed to go where?”

“On everything your bodysuit’s touching.” Coric slipped straight out of Rex’s hold and sprayed his own armor with sanitizer. He continued on his way, cleaning every surface he came across.

Cody leveled a glare at the captain. “This is your fault,” he mumbled as they both pulled off their shirts.

“You would’ve told him about the lake yourself!” retorted Rex.

“And the reason we fell into the lake in the first place was your fault, too,” Cody reminded. “This is going in your next Officer’s Report.”

“The 212th doesn’t contribute to my OR.” 

“It will this time.”

Despite their griping, their clothes came off and the cold paint went on. Yes, the énouement was bitterly strong today.

Cody winced the further down he spread the paste. “Is it supposed to burn like this?”

“Burning means it’s working,” one yellow-suited clone responded. They both waved different types of scanning equipment across the armor pile. One, sleek and oblong, made frequent beeping sounds as it emitted a transparent red beam; the other, wired to an outdated box gauge hanging from one clone like a satchel, clicked sporadically. 

Coric donned a new pair of medical gloves for the third time. His cleaning rampage ended– just short of scorching the medbay with fire– in time to see Rex and Cody painted from their necks to their ankles. 

“This is the last time I’m volunteering for one of your missions,” Cody muttered, shifting from foot to foot. 

Rex stood a little more compacted than before. “This is the last time I’m accepting one of these missions.”

“Don’t worry,” the medic assured them, “green’s definitely your color.” 

The yellow-suited clones closed in on them, waving a third type of scanner, one that screeched, over the green paint. Rex couldn’t remember a time he’d felt more exposed– or a time his body burned in so many places at once. To the hazmat unit’s credit, they were very thorough. That just meant the scanning process took upwards of an hour, and for that whole time Rex and Cody stood there in coagulating green paint. 

At least it gave Coric the courage to approach them once more. 

After the hour-long scan, the hazmat clones declared the officers were safe, but temporarily confiscated all their gear. The bodysuits they intended to burn, while the armor they loaded into a cart brought by additional clones from their unit. They planned to decontaminate the pieces in their own bay where they had access to much more specialized equipment, assuring the officers their armor would be returned… soon. 

“In the meantime, a night in the medbay for observation is the best thing for you,” a hazmat clone advised before the unit exited. The only trace they were ever there was the green paint left on Rex and Cody. 

Coric rubbed his large sanitized gloves together. “Perfect timing. Kix is on duty tonight!”

Rex tried to move. Faint cracking noises sounded from the top layer of paint; everything underneath was still congealing and the texture alone convinced Rex to not move again.

“I need out of this now.”  

Coric pointed the way to the medbay ‘fresher, and unfortunately for Rex, Cody pulled rank for the privilege of using it first. 

Énouement brimming, Rex sat on the edge of a medbed covered in coagulating, cracking, flaking green paint, while Coric escaped to his office once more. The medic returned in his standard armor, all preventative accoutrements gone. 

“This physical went a little differently than I was expecting,” Rex grunted. As much as he wanted to fling all limbs wide, he suffered the repulsive squish he created by hunching over, and modestly crossed arms and legs to hide places covered in paint anyway. 

Coric gazed across the spotless medbay. “It hasn’t been clean like this in awhile, but it’s not exactly worth a parasite scare.”

Rex chuckled despite himself, and a fresh series of cracks responded. A moment later, the door opened for Ahsoka to dash in, panting from what could’ve only been a long run. She held a wad of black in her hands.

“Kid–!” Rex fought all programming that demanded he jump to attention– or just stand in acknowledgment of her presence– at that moment. He managed to curl up a little tighter on himself, cheeks suddenly ruddy. 

“Rex!” Two steps closer, Coric held out a halting hand.

“Commander, you should probably, ah, keep your distance.” He intercepted her and received her bundle– a black bodysuit. “Thanks for this, sir.” While he brought the suit back to a medbed to fold properly, Ahsoka took a faltering step, as if remembering a half a second too late she wasn’t supposed to advance.

“Rex, how are you feeling? I heard from Coric about the quarantine and I wanted to check in on you.” The sincerity in her voice hit him as hot as the ‘fresher he was missing out on. “Plus I had to bring over an extra suit.”

Rex leveled a glare on the medic. “You called the commander to have her bring a change of clothes?!”

“I did no such thing,” Coric responded, hands defensively high. “I told her the situation and she ran errands all on her own.” 

“It’s fine, Rex,” Ahsoka spoke up. “I would’ve come regardless. Had to make sure you were all right.” She was close enough to see the pity in her eyes as she looked over his green body.

Rex’s limbs crossed him a little tighter, and he tried not to cringe at that extra squish of paint. “Thanks for your concern, sir. I’m fine. I’ll feel better once I get showered and change…” If Cody ever relinquished the ‘fresher.

Ahsoka smirked. If she hadn’t picked up on his body language, his dark blush must’ve clued her in. “As you were, Captain.” She casually retreated to the door. “If you need any help, just call.”

It hurts, seeing him for the first time in what feels like centuries. He’s handling you so gently but there’s a storm of violence buried in his eyes. He grins at you, lip almost stained with blood. Blood that wasn’t there before, last you saw him, standing proud. Blood and pain that you know you caused. But hope blossoms in your chest and your hands stop shaking when you say his name.

It hurts, finding him again after you both ran. Losing yourselves in otherselves, other lovers, other leaders. His eyes are hard when they look at you and you can’t name the emotion in his face, it’s one you can’t recognize, one you’ve never seen before. He looks lost, like he’s on a long path in the forests and it’s dark and his one light just flickered out of existence. You want to cry, he should never look so horrified and broken.

It hurts, fighting with him, throwing your body and words into causing him pain. You know him like you know the back of your hand, like you know your mother’s laugh, you know him better than you know yourself most days. You know how to twist the knife, how to make him bleed, how to hurt him. But hurting him hurts you and he can’t bear to see you pain. So you win but’s a empty victory, you feel like you’ve lost more than you’ve won when he looks at you with such betrayal. 

It hurts, all of it. The way he wraps your injuries, the way he stands by your side, the way he believes in you. It’s a throb in your chest, an ache in your heart and when you say you trust him you know in your bones that nothing has ever been closer to the truth. 

You ask yourself, looking at him, is this love? Is love meant to hurt this bad? And when he turns to you and holds out his hand all you do is think, yes


“A tattoo?”

Q turns to glare at the agent. “007, has anyone ever told you that reading over one’s shoulder is rude?”

“It’s an essential skill for espionage,” is the reasonable and altogether infuriating reply. “And you’re changing the subject. You’re getting a tattoo?”

“Why the surprise? You think I am not the type?” he challenges, ignoring the inconvenient truth that yes, that is exactly the impression he gives most people due to his tendency for dressing like a 70-year old man. A chic 70-year old man, Moneypenny had said soothingly. But 70, nevertheless.

(Q had not been soothed.)

“On the contrary,” James says with a leer that sends the blood rushing straight into Q’s face, which is perhaps preferable to the other option when his partner is acting like this. “I was rather surprised to find that you didn’t already have one.”

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