Untitled

I saw the url, and so I made it gay. They said please and everything.

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“My, my,” the villain murmured. “You are quite something.”

Cade whipped around. The adrenaline from the last fight hadn’t left yet, and now it ratcheted up another notch. His fingers curled into instinctive fists - but they weren’t in the ring now. He couldn’t just swing.

“Ashford.” It slipped out, curt. 

“Cade.” The villain’s smile was somewhere between delighted and wolfish - big and full of teeth. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you here. Does your sister know you’re out here getting that handsome face all bruised?” 

Cade swallowed, thrown, but he managed a careful smile back. Easy. As if he wasn’t potentially screwed. “Does that sound like the kind of thing she’d be chill with?” 

Ashford laughed. 

Seath Ashford was their family’s - now Cade’s sister’s - fiercest enemy. The man practically ran New London’s underbelly, so really Cade should have expected the possibility of seeing him. He hadn’t. He also hadn’t quite expected Ashton to actually know his name. Possibly he should have thought this out more.

Cade had been swigging water from the bar between fights, a little battered, but with some fresh cash earned for his pocket. He felt, abruptly, distinctly underdressed. He was in sweats and a tank top. Ashford was in an immaculately tailored three piece suit that did nothing to hide the fact that he was about as gorgeous as he was deadly. 

The Diamond in the Rough was a casino well known for its villainous connections, and its fight clubs. The worst of New London and its surroundings would gather in fancy suits and dresses to gamble their ill-earned fortunes from anything ranging between blackjack, poker and the fight cages dropped in the middle of it all because card games were much too civilised sometimes when you could have blood instead.

By rights, Cade shouldn’t have been there. He should have stuck to something a bit more discreet, in some dodgy basement, which didn’t pay as well; but his friend Selene had dropped out last minute and the owners had needed someone. And it really, truly, paid well. Cade could make more winning these fights on one night than he could getting the spit kicked out of him for an entire week somewhere else. 

Not that it was just for the money; he was a Madden, his sister insisted that he didn’t need to learn how to protect himself, but that was blatantly untrue. And what better way to learn then in the cages? Against the very people who might one day try and kill him for his family name?

As it was. 

Now he had to face Seath Ashford looking at him like he wanted to eat Cade right up. So maybe that was karma, bitch.

“I should, uh, get back,” Cade said. He jerked his head in the direction of the ring. He had one more fight left. He took a step away from the bar. 

Ashford’s fingertips brushed along Cade’s bare arm. 

Cade froze, he stopped breathing, and if it was fear regrettably it wasn’t just that. The hairs on his arm rose, goosebumped and tingling, at the light touch caressing down his muscles. 

Their eyes met.

In all of his sister’s rants about Ashford, she’d never mentioned that his eyes were that particular shade of light green. Like broken glass, catching the light. They clearly saw his reaction. 

“You forgot your water,” Ashford murmured. 

His water. Right. His whole reason for being at the bar. 

Ashford pressed it into his hand, and Cade was sure he could drink an ocean and his mouth would still be dry. 

“Oh, and Cade?” Ashford took a step closer still, and the two of them were the same height. He smiled, crooked at one side, roguishly lovely and his sister did absolutely not prepare him for that. “Do try not to die. I’m not done with you yet.”

***

The last fight was the most vicious so far. The guy was a hulking brute of a man who somehow managed to make Cade feel small. He was fast too. Playing to win. 

Worse of all, Ashford’s words kept ringing through his head.

Cade ducked, he backed off, forced on the defensive again and again. His breathing came heavy and ragged in his throat. 

He tried to remember what Selene had said - winning is great, but all they really want is a show. Do that, and you can fight another day. 

The problem was that he was all too aware of Ashford staring at him, watching his every move. Intent. Amused. Still stupidly bloody immaculate. It was - well, distracting, the way he watched. 

It probably wasn’t much of a show, but at least Cade lasted more than five minutes before he hit the ground. Pain throbbed through his body, more than he would be able to easily explain, and he could hear the crowd cheering and baying for their champion. He could taste blood in his mouth. 

Someone picked him up by the scruff of his neck, like he was a puppy instead of a six foot guy, and dizziness rushed him. He was deposited in a booth, opposite the smiling face of Seath Ashford. 

Cade blinked at him and plucked one of the fancy napkins up to hold to his face. 

“You can’t kidnap me, it goes against club rules.” 

“I’m not going to kidnap you.” 

“The look on your face says otherwise.”

Ashford laughed, once more. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned in. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and it did nothing to dissuade from Cade’s general sensation that the man was going to swallow him whole.

“I do want to take you home for the night,” Ashford said. Blunt. He reached out again, tracing his fingertips along Cade’s bloodied knuckles. “Say yes.”

His sister had said that Ashford had a way of being persuasive. She should have said that he had his own force of gravity, difficult to pull away from. Even knowing exactly who he was and what he did Cade really wanted to say yes. He had to bite back the word. 

“Why?” he asked. “Because I’m a Madden and you want to brag?” 

“I don’t kiss and tell. Unlike in your sister’s profession, in mine you have to be good with secrets.”

Cade stared at him. 

“You are a secret,” Ashford said. “I would very much like to keep for a bit. You intrigue me. I looked up your records earlier - as I said, you’re quite something.” 

Cade was something, sure; he was the screw up of the family. He was a mess, compared to the Madden’s general pristine radiance. He was the disappointing little brother who could never quite reach his potential, who was apparently too stupid to use his words instead of his fists. And even with that...

“I lost,” Cade managed, hoarsely.

“Guy you were fighting is one of my right hands. If you’d won against a trained assassin, I would have had to have you stabbed in the parking lot on principle.”

It would be dumb to say yes. It would be the kind of reckless idiocy that his parents had always tried to train out of him. 

Seath Ashford was the enemy. He was dangerous. He was a bad decision.

“Yes,” Cade said. 

he and ilya are hanging out in the yard and some bees are buzzing around because some watermelon juice spilled on the ground earlier and shane suggests they go inside or rinse the juice off the patio and ilya teases him about being scared of little bees and shane SO nonchalantly just, "no, but i am allergic and you don't know where my epipen is"

and ilya

reblogging with my own tags because i'm also CACKLING imagining the implications of this not being specific to ilya, either. they're having a barbeque at hayden and jackie's house and hayden is good-naturedly encouraging shane to try a piece of coffee cake or something and ilya just goes, "no, bad for you"

and hayden IMMEDIATELY is on the defensive because what? you get to tell him what to eat now? where do you get o-

"no, bad for him because it has walnuts in it, pike. you want him to die? this is what you want?"

"what are you talking about?"

shane: "i'm allergic"

"??? since WHEN??"

"since always??"

"you've eaten over at my house HOW many times?? and never brought this up? the fuck, dude?"

"jackie knows"

the idea of ilya on instagram accidentally pressing like while DEEP in allergy mommy blogging territory and natalie from That Allergy Mama DMing him to be like "hi, my husband wants me to tell you he says hi and that he's a big fan and also that call against you against san francisco was bullshit." "hello, husband of natalie. also do you have any suggestions for substituting peanuts in this recipe?"

he gets filmed for a what i eat in a day/day in the life type video and is so used to thinking about substitutes at this point that he doesn't even think about it when he mentions them in passing. they keep an allergy friendly household so the stuff he mentions is compliant, but it's paired with comments like, "and then i add some wowbutter, which is soybeans and not peanuts. we also sometimes have sunflower seed butter, but the texture for this is better with the wowbutter. i have also tried this, what is it called-shane: the gross paste with beans" *shane, offscreen from the living room*: "chickpea butter?" "yes, this." "it's nasty" "yes, not good. their jar says it is, but it is not. anyway-"

A. the idea of ilya being lowkey stressed about shane surprising him and potentially being exposed to allergens is so fucking funny. ilya who ends up also keeping an allergy-friendly household PURELY because it's just less stressful that way. meanwhile the motherfucker WITH the allergies is SO fucking casual about it that it wouldn't even occur to him to ask ilya to do that.

B. when they're pushing the friendship cover, ilya gets nudge nudge jokes about trying to copy what hollander's doing, and he's not going to share information shane didn't greenlight to get out, so he just plays along. and now there's like. at least three other players lowkey accidentally following an allergy diet because they don't know it's an allergy diet. why do hollander and now rozanov not eat tree nuts? unclear, but they're also the best two players in the entire industry so it's worth a shot to copy them.

@lucky-santangelo ilya only getting five seconds of feeling smug and holier than thou before shane puts him on blast is KILLING me XD

shane groaning SO loud when ilya first breaks out the allergy cards because GOD ilya it's NOT that serious this is embarass-

oh? is this more or less embarassing than having allergic reaction in the middle of a restaurant and needing your epipen? hm? shut up and take the fucking shiny cards, hollander.

and riFUCKINGp to the restaurant that lied about not using peanut oil in their fryer as an angry, stressed ilya is stuck in a hospital lobby with wifi and a lot of energy that has nowhere to go until he's allowed to be back with his husband. you're DONE FOR.

GOD the psychic damage ilya takes the day he finds out body products can have allergens in them. his body wash company is getting a SCATHING email about fucking around with their formula when there are PEOPLE with ALLERGIES who RELY ON-

shane growing up who always got, "oh, you poor thing" from well-intentioned adults as a kid and then, "damn, i could NEVER live like that" from same-age peers when older whenever he had to explain his allergies, and it was both annoying and also felt like failing at something when he had to decline a piece of birthday cake or a slice of pizza because it wasn't safe for him.

but if he frames it as a performance diet, then suddenly! admiration! he gets some teasing obviously, but there's also an air of "good for you, man" that lands a lot easier than pity.

@riddlemaster101

i feel like shane would reliably tell medical people because this is a Rule for medical settings so yes of course he'll go into detail

David spots them at the cottage and they go over, Shane's cottage is obviously allergen free and the shopping he did is all safe for him. Yuna and David know to cook safely, the chicken parm is all good and fine but they say "the croutons aren't safe for you, but you don't like those anyway" just in passing as a matter of habit and Ilya who JUST learned about bananas and latex and bees is like "oh wow! More allergies?? I need a list. Haha" and then they have the meal and the panic attack and they become boyfriends. Before they leave Yuna makes him a copy of her list of all the known allergens and Shane's common reactions to them, it's the first time he hugs her. He looks her in the eye and says "thank you for letting me take care of him. I will be careful."

It's a relief, to know he cares to try. But at the end of the day they JUST met this man. So they cross their fingers and try not to feel the same way they did every time Shane went to somebody's house for a birthday party or a sleepover.

And then they are over at the cottage some night and they decide to order in for dinner. Ilya takes everybody's orders and goes to the kitchen to call it in for them and it's taking *forever* so Yuna goes to see if he needs any help. She finds him sitting with two copies of the list, hers and one translated into Russian for his easy reference. He has the phone on speaker and says "thank you for checking the dressing ingredients, I know is weird request, but sometimes Caesar dressing is safe, sometimes not safe, but he likes it so much is worth checking. Yes, I'll hold again."

They've ordered from this place a dozen times, their recipe for Caesar dressing is safe, YUNA knows that, SHANE knows that, that's why he ordered it. But *Ilya* doesn't. So he's checking. Because Shane wants the dressing and Ilya want him *safe* and *happy*. And isn't that all a parent wants? For their kid to be with someone who is just as invested in their happiness and safety as they are? For somebody who will wait on hold while they check the fry oil and the dressing ingredients and whatever else?

also cackling about the idea of ilya using the group chat with them to be mad about brands changing their ingredients so things that were SAFE are now NOT 😤 it started just as a "hey, those crackers aren't safe anymore" as a collective fyi thing, but it ends up being ilya just mad about safe things not being safe anymore

and now he gets to go to his boyfriend's house and just know there'll be a cabinet of stuff that's safe for him. doesn't even have to worry about it. this is the Shane Cabinet, and it contains Shane Food. and when there's dinner?? that will also be Shane Food.

my fav kickass noblewomen of Avatar :)

In ATLA, Sokka's misogyny was present for 3 episodes in the very beginning of the show, and then used to deliver narrative carthasis in episode 4, in the form of Sokka's 180 turn into feminism. The tension of flexing the rubber band of Sokka's misogyny was brief, and the release of that tension then felt appropriatly sized, because it came so soon in the series. The the rest of the show continued slapping instant karmic punishments to characters who expressed misogynistic beliefs. (Anyone who underestimated Toph, Yue's bethored, the guys who catcalled Katara, etc, etc). The world of ATLA is such, that it bends itself to always prove the misogynist wrong. (of course atla also has it's weak points where it falters with this aim, but the express aim is clearly there) The audience is primed, so that they can ignore the flinch of hearing a misogynist micro (or macro) agression, because they can expect the cathrasis of a karmic punishment to follow.

This works very well in the genre of escapist fantasy adventure. Shows like Succession, or Breaking Bad, or IWTV can present misogynist characters, who never learn or face any consequences, because the cathrasis of those shows comes from watching unpleasant people wallow in their self-inflicted miseries. They are shows about characters you love to hate.

Escapist fantasy adventure as a genre doesn't want to create characters you love to hate. It wants to create characters you love to love.

One Piece is an escapist fantasy adventure. It wants to create characters we love to love. So, it also has to ask the question of: How much can we pull on the rubber-band of discomfort before delivering any kind of cathrasis to the audience. The complaints that animanga One Piece faces, comes from the fact that for a lot of people, the answer is not this much.

Complaints about ATLA liveaction removing Sokka's *Suki teaches him about feminism* moment, and complaints about animanga One Piece having characters dropping misogynistic microagressions casually all over the place, come from the exact same emotion. 'I wanted to see a moment of fantasy-wish-fulfillment where a man changes how he behaves, and I was not delivered that emotional cathrasis.'

This has nothing to do with whether any of the misogyny of the characters makes sense in universe.

Different people will find different character flaws more or less bearable, and it's always a tight-rope you have to walk on. But creators do have a choice in what flaws they expect the audience to find interesting and where the line of so-insufferable-I'm-picking-a-different-show lies. I think for OPLA crew, the choices would have been

Leave it as it is, rubbing that *discomfort without any comfort* button way too roughly for a HUGE chunks of the new audience.

Create an entirely new storyline about Sanji and Zoro facing consequences and *changing their ways*. And I would be willing to bet actual money that the fans of the animanga would have been even more pissed if OPLA had started soloing with the storyline like that.

Just sand down the sexist corners, as the show did. And from these three options, I fully belive they picked the right one by pikcing this.

low oil/low meat/focus on vegetables and whole grains/no nuts and seeds??

However, when socially awkward Shane was confronted with an extrovert extending friendship (Hayden inviting him to dinner) he panicked and thought of the first excuse he could think of without seeming rude: that he followed a macrobiotic diet. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Hayden did not let this deter him and Jackie had like one hour to learn what a macrobiotic diet was and make something suitable.

she didn't have time to look up details the first time because she just had to find a recipe that was kind of in line with what she was already planning on making (because she doesn't want him to feel excluded!) and order groceries to be delivered, but she starts doing more research because she enjoys cooking and also wants to be a good hostess and then just 🤨 wait a second 🤨 as she thinks about what she's SEEN SHANE EATING WITH HER OWN EYES BEFORE at mixers/events and also the way he'll happily take a ginger ale no problem

and she also sees the way he picks at the food when he comes over (he'll eat most of it, but he clearly isn't used to or enjoying it, and not even in the "i just gotta get calories in even though i'm sick of eating" way hayden ends up doing during the season like all pro athletes), so she eventually decides that shane must have been making a joke that hayden didn't pick up on, and if he wants to be funny, she can be HILARIOUS.

“Do they.”

The villain seemed entirely unperturbed by both the statement and the intrusion; eyes possibly closed behind their shades, all artful laziness as they sprawled upon a deckchair by the pool. Their long limbs seemed to stretch for miles of unmarred skin. It was obscene. A brazen promise that the villain needed no armour, no defences, whatsoever.

“With varied looks of awe, jealousy and absolute terror,” the hero said.

A smirk curled the villain’s lips, then, just briefly.

“You wouldn’t happen,” the hero crossed the space between them, “to know anything about that, would you?”

The villain slid the shades up when the hero blocked the sun; looming over them, hands on hips. Their head tilted as they considered the hero. Their gaze simmered.

The hero leaned down slowly, bracing their arms on the back of their chair on either side of the villain’s shoulders. They raised their eyebrows to repeat the question.

“You know,” the villain said, “normally when you get in a mood to interrogate me it’s at least about less obvious things. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow on me now. You’re much too young and pretty to be taken round back and shot because you’re past working age.”

“I’m not yours.”

“Babe.”

It seemed impossible that one word, so fond and so mocking all at once, could contain quite so much chiding. The hero’s face burned.

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“And I’m sure the earth didn’t sit down and have a formal chat about orbiting with the sun either,” the villain said, “and the moon didn’t negotiate tide times with the ocean. C’est la vie. The facts of the universe remain.”

“I’m pretty sure we are not a fact of the universe.”

“And yet…” The villain hooked their fingers into the front of the hero’s shirt, tugging them closer, until their lips were inches apart. “Like a gravitational pull, here you are.”

The hero kissed them, then, savagely.

It was their first kiss, but the villain didn’t miss a beat. They slid their legs apart so that the hero could settle with one knee on the lounger braced between them. They tugged the hero’s shirt again like perfect choreography, the elegant execution of another mastermind plan, drawing the hero closer still. They claimed the hero’s mouth, in turn, despite the fact that it was so clearly not a claim that needed making.

“You are such a piece of work,” the hero muttered, breathless. The moved to bite the villain’s neck, obnoxiously higher than the line of their collar. “You can’t just go around telling people I belong to you. Screw you.”

The villain laughed. Their other hand slid around the hero’s back, sun-soaked palm smoothing down before their fingers squeezed the hero’s arse. Their bodies rocked together, pooling heat treacherous and molten in the pit of the hero’s stomach, making them gasp. The villain’s other hand stayed locked around the hero’s shirt, keeping them close.

“Babe,” the villain said again, all teeth and delighted, terribly delightful malice. “Do you really still think I had to? Do you actually think that’s a conversation I bothered to have?”

“…Ugh.”

The villain caught the hero’s chin, turning their head up again. They captured the hero’s mouth in another fierce kiss, and it did feel as inevitable as gravity, as inescapable as a riptide.

The hero was mortified to hear a small moan leave them.

“People are going to think I have terrible taste,” the hero said. “Oh my god.”

“You do have terrible taste,” the villain said. “We could have been doing this ages ago if you weren’t so stubborn.”

“I’m not yours.”

“Say that again when you manage to stop kissing me.”

The hero huffed. They forced themselves to stop, panting, and immediately missed the feel of the villain’s lips against them.

The villain laughed again, shaking their head. They slid their hand from the hero’s collar, up to their throat, fingers splaying over the hero’s racing pulse.

“I don’t mind you fighting it,” the villain said. They bit their lip, eyes dark. Their thumb caressed the hero’s jugular. “You know I like watching you fight. But you hate liars, babe, so at least do us both the courtesy of not being such an unconvincing hypocrite. You wouldn’t stand up anywhere near so well under my interrogation.”

The hero glared at them. They didn’t protest again, though. The villain wasn’t wrong after all. They tried not to think what that brand of interrogation might entail. They failed.

“I hate you,” the hero said, instead, and it didn’t feel like enough.

“Mm.” The villain was once more unperturbed by such a declaration. “You’re still blocking my sun. Your options are to either move, or I’m putting you beneath me. I need to get my back anyway.”

The obvious option was to move. To fly away the way they’d come and keep flying. The hero's heart pounded in their ears. Want drummed through their veins, like poison.

“Maybe I’m not yours,” the hero said. “Maybe you’re mine.”

"Oh, love.” In an instant, the villain had flipped them.

The hero’s breath hitched.

The villain, oh so leisurely, straddled the hero’s hips.

The hero imagined the villain’s hands on their wrists, pinning them down, taking what was wanted without the hero needing to ask or give up anything. Their mouth felt dry.

The villain looked at the hero like they knew, too well, all the ways in which defiance could be surrender. Mere bravado. A lie that the villain was only thinly indulging, and only because they were getting their way anyway.

The hero swallowed.

The villain smiled. They leaned down and pressed the gentlest of kisses to the hero’s lips – just enough to stoke the fire – and then settled. Cuddled. It would have been sweet on someone else, if it wasn’t so infuriating. If the hero didn’t feel like they were about to explode. Itching for a fight or – or –

“Of course I’m yours, babe,” the villain said, against their ear. “Do you really think that’s going to save you?”

No.

Hello! Your writing is so fun and juicy and I was just wondering if you'd be willing to write a Hero x Villain where Hero is trying to deny their feelings for Villain and Villain is just flirting relentlessly. Maybe Villain kidnapped Hero just to have them alone??

"You think I have feelings for you?" the hero demanded. "You kidnapped me."

"Are you telling me that the big, bad superhero can't break free of a pair of cuffs?"

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it?" The villain smiled, coming to a stop between the hero's splayed legs. "Because if you can break free, gorgeous, it means you're choosing to stay."

The hero swallowed. Cuffed to a (admittedly comfortable enough) chair, they had to tip their head up to meet the villain's gaze. They shifted, slightly. They refused to call it squirming.

The villain's smile grew to a wicked grin.

"That's not the point," the hero said again, voice cracking a little. "It's still kidnapping!"

"And of course nothing in you finds it hot that I can get the better of you. You're above such things. The way you shivered when I walked in was pure terror. Is that right?"

"I'm not scared of you! We just established I can get free of these cuffs at any time."

The villain raised an eyebrow.

The hero coloured and looked down. Their mind reeled. They didn't have feelings for the villain. They didn't. Because that would be wrong. It would be morally heinous. It would be...

"Mm." The villain trailed their finger up along the hero's heaving chest, tip tip their chin up again, and the hero's breath gave a treacherous hitch. "So why are you staying, then?"

"You might give an evil monologue and reveal all your plans. Your kind like to do that."

The villain laughed. "Oh my love. You've never met my kind. Maybe if you had, you'd know what to do with me."

"Arrest you?"

"Pin me down and tell me I've been so very naughty?"

"Yes! No - I mean no!" The hero's face was on fire. They glared at the villain.

The villain brushed a thumb over their cheek, almost soothing. Like they wanted to reassure the hero that, if they were mocking, it was not to be cruel.

The hero belatedly realised they should have recoiled from the touch a long time ago. They swallowed again, but they still couldn't quite seem to get any moisture into their mouth. They felt suddenly infinitely aware of their tongue.

No clever comebacks came to mind. Only the image of the villain pressed writhing beneath their hands, breathless and wild and grinning in that way of theirs.

"So. Here you are." The villain got back on track, though perhaps not mercifully, after another all too telling moment of silence. "And it's absolutely not because you have feelings for me. It's all..." They waved their free hand, "strategic. It's not for the fact that part of you knows..." The villain leaned down, close enough to kiss. "That kidnapped and alone with me is the only time you would ever allow yourself to truly act on what you want, instead of playing perfect. If you were brave enough to take it, that is."

"I-" The hero faltered.

Their gaze dipped to the villain's lips, cataloguing the minty puff of their breath, their closeness. They cleared their throat. Something in them ached. Longed. Yearned. Reinvented new synonyms for craning hopelessly, helplessly, for the thing that they were not allowed or able to have.

The hero shook their head.

"Okay." The villain straightened abruptly. They pulled back. Their fingers fell away, leaving the hero bereft. "Sorry for pressing. See you out there, maybe, gorgeous."

"I-what?"

"You're free to go. Far be it from me to inflict myself where I'm not wanted."

"What? No!" The protest left the hero unbidden as the villain turned away.

It was a trap. It was so obviously a trap, and yet the hero stepped in it anyway because...because...

"You are such an asshole," the hero said.

"Villain, darling."

"It doesn't change anything even if I did have feelings for you. I can't."

"Ain't no one here but us to find out about it."

"It will get messy."

"Life does that, gorgeous." Still, the villain's voice was softer than before, quieter. Less the purr, or teasing lilt. "That's what makes it life."

After a beat, the villain moved back over to them again. They slipped one finger beneath the hero's chin.

"You're tied to a chair, kidnapped by a supervillain," the villain said. "So just this once we can pretend you don't have a choice. Can I kiss you?"

The hero nodded, heart pounding in their chest.

It was a mistake, another trap of as much as any tale of honey and flies, because they immediately wanted more of the sweetness. The villain's mouth on theirs was a more perfect thing than any of the pedestals that the hero had made a home on.

When the villain pulled back, the hero broke the cuffs thoughtlessly to chase, to slip fingers into the villain's hair and drew them back in closer.

The villain's breath hitched that time.

The hero wanted more of that too. They just wanted.

"Tell me again," the hero said, as they recklessly kissed the villain deep, "that I don't know exactly what to do with you, asshole?"

The villain laughed again and it was one of the best sounds the hero had regrettably ever heard.

"Oh, come on," the hero said. They lowered their crutch where they'd been ready to use it as a weapon, sagging exhausted back against the sofa. "I've already got broken bones. Now I have to deal with a broken lock too?"

As if, perhaps, their heart wasn't pounding. The terror of invasion. Thinking it might be-

"Would you have let me in if I knocked?" the villain asked.

Yes, when it was them. But that felt damning. "No."

"There you go, then." The villain's head tilted, considering the hero where they were laid up on the sofa. "How are the broken bones?"

"Broken."

The villain hummed. "And how's being at my mercy?"

"I don't need a working leg to kick your arse."

"You just shivered."

"It's cold in here. Get a life. Did you at least bring me soup in exchange for wrecking my lock?" the hero asked.

"No," the villain said. "You need better locks. Consider it a favour."

"Oh, gosh. I don't know how I'll ever get over my gratitude."

The villain smirked, at that. It made the hero realise how tense the lines of the villain's mouth had been before. Not like them.

"Glad to see that tongue of yours is as well as ever." The villain sauntered over, bracing one arm on the arm of the sofa, the other on its back. Looming. "Is it just the sass that's at full capacity or can you do other things with it too?"

The hero's stomach swooped at the proximity, instincts warring. The villain probably wouldn't hurt them, hadn't come to hurt them, but...

"Is this you offering to kiss me better?"

...but they could. In a way that, usually, they couldn't. The hero would have been across the room too fast for the villain to hope to get close without the hero's permission.

They were at the villain's mercy.

"I'm full of favours today, it seems," the villain said.

"So generous. I don't know how anyone ever says a bad thing about you."

The villain laughed. They leaned down to press a kiss to the hero's mouth and - the hero flinched.

The villain froze. Their brow furrowed, as they obviously reassessed the hero's earlier shiver.

The hero cursed themselves; for being spooked, for feeling fragile, for the way the pain was either too sharp or the pain meds left them too sluggish. They quickly leaned in to finish the kiss; nothing new, a thing done a thousand times before.

The villain sank to their knees. Non-threatening.

The hero wasn't sure if they loved them for that, or hated them for immediately seeing far too much.

"I'm alright," the hero said. "It's just a broken leg. No need to embarrass yourself."

"Broken leg. Broken ribs. That wrist looks sprained."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," the hero said. "It's not happening ever again."

The villain scoffed and stroked their fingers, oh so soothing, through the hero's hair. The hero wanted to melt and they weren't sure they could bear it.

"So what was so important it couldn't wait?" they asked, throat tight. "Were you worried about me? Lame."

"Careful," the villain said. "You wouldn't like it if I said I was."

The hero leaned in to kiss them again at that. Distraction. Desire. Something easy that didn't hurt. The villain allowed it and nipped their lip, very gently, almost as if the hero wasn't injured at all.

"I was just in the area," the villain said. "Thought I'd come and congratulate on you saving the city and all that."

"Oh, that. Yeah. I mean. It would be inconvenient if it all went up in smoke, you know? Hard to find a good apartment these days."

"Indeed."

The villain was looking at them far too tender.

"I'm serious about the soup," the hero said. "I want chicken."

The villain raised an eyebrow. "I'll replace the lock. Something better."

"You have to make it yourself," the hero said. "Or I won't believe you're really sorry."

"No one will be able to get in who you don't want. You'll be safe. You are safe."

The hero glared, the words a lance to the heart. Too good and too terrible. "And ice cream. Strawberry."

"Alright." The villain's thumb caressed their cheek. "Chicken soup and strawberry ice cream."

"And you have to stay here while the lock is installed. Bastard."

The villain smiled. The hero reached into their hair and yanked.

"I'm serious," they said. "I can still kick your arse."

"You're fine."

"Yeah. I am fine. Shut up."

The villain leaned in to kiss them and the hero didn't flinch, easing into the villain's presence. Adrenaline fading out.

Being at the villain's mercy was always great fun when it wasn't true.

"You're fine," the villain said again, softly. They pressed their face against the hero and the hero opened their mouth to say something biting and acid and - and said nothing. The villain was trembling slightly. Repeating the words. The mantra.

Worried. They'd been really bloody worried, hadn't they?

So the hero said nothing. They let their hand fall to cup the back of the villain's head, holding them close.

"Bit playing into tropes, isn't it?" the hero asked. "The femme fatale."

"Did you prefer my damsel in distress when we first met?" The villain smiled, passing a fizzing pink flute of sparkling wine over. She widened her eyes and touched the hero's bicep. "Thank you so much for saving me! You're so strong and good and pretty! I want to be just like you."

The hero glared, even as her face went hot at the memory. Of how utterly she'd been fooled. She took the flute automatically.

"I didn't think so," the villain said. "Don't come at the tropes, gorgeous, when you like them so much you can't stop staring."

"I don't like-" The hero gritted her teeth. "I'm staring to make sure you don't do anything evil."

"Morally ambiguous at best, darling. Everyone knows the femme fatales are morally ambiguous."

"Are they also insufferable?"

The villain laughed. More genuine than perfect. Enough to make something in the hero catch like they'd just drained their glass and swallowed a handful of stars. Light and giddy.

The hero released a breath. Why did this happen every time? The second she was in the villain's presence, hazy in her scent of violets and smoke, she felt too hot and stupid and like a particularly graceless bull in a china shop.

She tried again, cool. "Whatever you're planning tonight-"

"-Oh, you don't know?" The villain's smile notched wider. She clinked their glasses together. "Whatever. Cheers."

"Assassination," the hero snapped.

"If you say so."

"I know so." The hero's gaze scanned the party below them, finding the tech bro monster-come-idiot who'd foolishly taken the villain for eye candy thinking he could control her. "We're leaving. Right now."

The villain simply raised an eyebrow at that, her own attention flicking from where the hero's hand landed on her arm, back to the hero's face.

"I don't think you want to start a fight here. All the people screaming. So many cameras. Your complete lack of evidence."

"My evidence is that I know you."

"Yes," the villain said, soft and pleased. "You do."

The hero swallowed, thrown for a beat.

"So, assassination."

"I never kiss and tell. Not even to you. Though, given you're here, perhaps I don't need to."

"Will you come quietly?"

"Will you pick me up and throw me over your shoulder if I don't?"

The hero rolled her eyes and the villain smirked. Her hand slid up, half mockery of when they first met, part something else that was harder to read.

"You could simply be the better date," the villain said.

"...what."

"Seduce me away from my target," the villain said, "if you think I'm going to hurt them. If you know me. If you're sure." Her fingers flipped, expertly, grazing along the sensitive underside of the hero's wrist, stroking the path of a vein. "I can teach you, if you like."

The hero's grip tightened on her flute.

"Or I could just punch you," she said. If it was a little breathless, well...she was only trying not to be overheard. "Much more efficient."

"And damage this face? Tch. You're not a monster."

It was the hero's turn to laugh, despite herself. Too loud. Too bright. She pressed a hand over her mouth as people glanced curiously over at them.

"Come on. You must be bored of playing the angel," the villain murmured. "And, personally." She leaned in, caressing her lips against the hero's ear, "I think you'd make an amazing whore."

The sound that the hero made was truly embarrassing. She would have ranted about any girl who turned so weak at the knees in a fantasy novel, so it seemed the villain's greatest malevolence to make her feel that. Especially as a response to saying something like that.

The villain laughed again softly and drained her drink, before setting the glass aside to free up her hands.

"An unusual seduction technique," she said. "But it works for you. Quite adorable. Nobody would ever suspect you were capable of killing everyone in this room if you weren't so invested in being good."

"How do I know you're not just trying to distract me? Get me away from your target?"

"Do you mean 'how do you know you're not my target?'" The villain shrugged. "I suppose you'll find out. In the interest of playing devil's advocate, you are the one who told me to leave though. If anything, I'm being nice."

"Given it's you that's even more suspicious."

The villain grinned. "Maybe I just want to see your moves, given you seem fit to mock mine."

"I'm not-" The hero studied her, heart hammering. It was clearly a trap of some sort. Everything about her was a trap of some sort. The villain's eyes, glittering with her private amusements, revealed nothing. "I'm not trying to mock you. I just think you could be so much more than this."

"And I think you'd look good on your knees. We all have our opinions."

"Insufferable. Utterly insufferable."

"Blushing." The villain touched a hand to her cheek. "And I thought you didn't have any weaknesses."

"I don't! Certainly not to you."

"Then you have nothing to lose, don't you? Except someone else's life. But, let's be real, I would probably be doing the world a favour."

The hero opened her mouth to argue that, then closed it.

"Fine," she said. "But only because it's not like I'm planning to let you out of my sight."

"Mm, yes. You're very attentive."

"You don't have to say it like that."

"Part of being a femme fatale is saying everything with innuendo. Champagne." The villain caught her hand, bringing the hero's knuckles to her lips, kissing them gently. "Enchantee."

"Croissant?" the hero offered, mimicking the villain's dreamy velvet.

It was some kind of phenomenal acting that the villain honest to god giggled. "Butternut squash," she offered back, a moment later, in that oh so sultry tone.

The hero bit her lip to keep from laughing again.

The villain tipped her head, laughter and smirk fading, until it only lingered in her eyes once more. A secret for the two of them.

"First lesson," she said. "This is the bit where you ask me to dance."

"Would you like to dance?"

"Hey, we're not done!" The hero shoved the villain in the back.

The villain turned.

The hero moved to shove them again, heart beating wildly, and the villain pushed back. Hard. The hero's spine hit the wall and the villain followed, punching hard enough that the hero's ears rang sweetly. The villain moved to hit again.

Maybe it was the hitch of their breath that gave the hero away. The way their eyelids fluttered. The fact that they didn't try and lift a hand to defend themselves.

The villain paused.

The hero panted, dull pain throbbing through their body, head spinning where it rested against the cool brick wall. They were, by their own assessment, a few good hits away from merciful oblivion.

They twisted their lips into a cocky, goading smirk. Blood-flecked and bruised.

The villain's eyes were dark like an oil slick in the dim light. They lowered their fist.

"What's the matter, coward?" the hero asked. "Had enough already?"

"You want this," the villain said.

The hero was somehow not prepared for the villain to notice, let alone to acknowledge it. It was excruciating to hear it out loud. None of the others had noticed.

The fingers of the villain's other hand untangled from the front of the hero's shirt, moving to their throat as the hero's knees nearly buckled. It steadied them.

The hero opened their mouth to protest that they wanted to stop the villain, yeah, but the villain squeezed. The words turned to a desperate wheeze. The want, the need, an ugly festering wound.

"Jesus," the villain said. With regret. With something. "Why?"

"Sod off." They batted at the villain's hands. "If you're not going to fight me-"

"-This isn't a fight. It's just a beating when you're that exhausted."

The hero's face flushed. "I'm fine."

The villain yanked them, suddenly, unbearably, to the light. The lamppost illuminated the shadows under the hero's eyes, no doubt, with unforgivable clarity.

"H-hey-" the hero protested.

The villain's gaze raked over them. It seemed to see everything. The hero wanted to scuttle back into the dark, into the violence, like a cockroach.

"Why?" the villain asked again.

"You're being really weird about this..."

"And you want me to hit you again. Tell me why."

"Why do you care?!"

"Do you think you deserve this?"

The hero flinched.

The villain nodded, just once, like that confirmed something. "Some of that is older than me." They found a bruise on the hero's wrist and pressed down, making the hero gasp. "I'd give this about a week? What happened a week ago?"

The hero wrenched back. They were effective enough to slip free of the villain's grip, but not so effective that they didn't stumble and land on their ass in the gutter.

The villain's head tilted, studying them.

"Stop looking at me," the hero snarled.

"Stop trying to fight me just to hurt yourself."

"Fine!"

"Fine." The villain turned away. Then, they turned back. Their jaw worked.

The hero pushed, wobbly and frazzled and aching, to their feet. The villain steadied them. The hero glared. The villain seemed unfazed.

"I'll hit you," they said, "if that's what you need. But not like this. This is - reckless."

"What?"

They weren't sure where to start unpicking that. The fact that it almost sounded like the villain was concerned, trying to help, or why this in the grand scheme of everything was what the villain had decided was reckless.

"You can't just go goading people into trying to kill you." The villain's voice was measured. "But if you were going to stop just because I told you to, you probably wouldn't be trying to get your arse kicked in the first place. So next time you want that, come to me. We'll figure it out."

"You weren't kicking my arse."

"You look a few minutes from passing out."

"That's just my face."

The villain raised their brows, unimpressed.

The hero folded their arms, making their ribs pull. Another wave of light-headness washed over them.

"How's your face," the villain said. Flat.

"Still wondering why you care."

"You don't deserve it."

"Don't."

The villain said it so simply, as if they could possibly know that. The hero flinched again, in a way they hadn't during any fight that week. It knocked more air out of their lungs too than any blow.

"You asked," the villain said. "More than once."

"It would be kinder just to hit me if you're having a bizarre burst of conscience."

The villain snorted. Their gaze remained stormy. The hero didn't know what to make of it.

"And if I turn down your offer?" they asked.

"Other people are scared of me, even if you're an idiot. People don't like touching my stuff. They like breaking it even less."

It took the hero a moment to process. They gaped.

The villain shrugged. "Your choice."

"This is none of your business."

"You made it my business when you picked a fight with me."

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if knew you'd react like this!"

"Yes." The villain's voice was horribly, terribly, soft. "I know."

The hero swallowed and they scrubbed a hand over their face, not sure if they wanted to claw their own skin off or sob. The adrenaline of the fight left them shaking as it drained a way. All pain without the reprieve of unconsciousness, the overwhelming agony of it to make the shame and the guilt and the regret feel small.

The villain patted their cheek, just hard enough to sting, not hard enough to do any damage. The hero didn't know if it was a peace offering or a temptation. Cruelty or more unnerving kindness.

"Come along," the villain said. "Let's get you home. I want to get my clothes to a washing machine before your blood stains my coat..."

"Scared?"

"No." The hero's voice cracked. The sound was far too loud, too obvious, in the devouring dark. They pivoted on the spot, squinting, as if that would do them or their hammering heart any good at all.

There was nothing. It did nothing. Of course there wasn't.

They jumped at the touch of a - hand? tendril among the living night? Feather-light, grazing along their throat. Gone when they whirled.

The hero bit back a whimper.

"Your pulse is racing," the villain murmured.

In the fog of the hero's panic, their voice seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere. As elusive to snatch as the shadows themselves.

"Only because you're annoying!"

The villain laughed. Soft, mocking.

The villain's powers gave them absolute control of the dark, turned it into something physical and concrete, the ever-twisting manifestation of a childhood nightmare. In the light, the villain was a prettier thing.

Light. The hero fumbled for their own powers, but their fingers shook too hard. The dim candlelight they managed to summon to their fingertips felt like it barely penetrated the crowding gloom.

The panic rose in the hero's throat, bubbled over.

In an instant, the darkness pounced. It cradled them softly, wrapped them up in an unbreakable hold, sliding around their wrists, their ankles, like silk upon their eyes. It poured into their mouth until they gagged on it. Tasting of promise, and threat, and nothing at all.

"You look good scared," the villain said. That time, the hero felt a definite touch, the press of them against the hero's back. Lips against their ear. "Especially when you're scared for me."

"It's not for you."

"Isn't it?" the villain asked. Their hand trailed down along the line of the hero's throat once more, along their side. The hero's breath hitched. "Is it not mine?"

The hero closed their eyes, for a moment, because was it a fraction more bearable than staring out into nothingness.

"You don't know what I look like. It's dark."

"You think I can't see in the dark? You think I can't see you?"

"I think this is a cheap trick," the hero snapped. "And you wouldn't dare face me in the sunlight."

"Of course not," the villain said. "I'm not stupid enough to challenge you on home territory. How's it going for you?"

The hero had been determined when they headed out into the night; to face their fears, prove them worthless, to defeat the villain once and for all.

It had, clearly, been a wild miscalculation.

The hero swallowed. They searched for something clever to say and came up empty.

The villain laughed that soft laugh again and placed a kiss just above the hero's damning pulse.

"Don't worry," the villain said. "I'll be merciful."

"I didn't know that was a word in your vocabulary."

"I'll let you go if you answer just one question for me."

The hero turned their head, desperate to see the villain's face, though they couldn't. Their lips brushed the villain's at the motion, though. They both stilled. The villain's breath was warm, human. Maybe that revealed something even their expression couldn't betray. Neither of them recoiled. The villain's free hand rose, grazing along the hero's jaw, their hair.

"What's the question?" the hero asked.

"Is it worse to be in my hands, in the darkness, or to be alone in it?"

The hero faltered. They imagined themselves stumbling through the villain's night, lost and blind, trying to conjure enough light to find some way out of the maze of it all. They shivered. Pressed themselves a little closer to the villain, to their more personal darkness, before they could stop themselves.

The villain hummed. The silence stretched, its own kind of answer.

"I am the worst thing you will ever find in the dark," the villain said. "Let the other monsters scuttle back to the light, where they foolishly think it's safe, and you are waiting for them."

"I - I'm not -"

"Aren't you?"

But the hero was. They'd taken pride in it. The things that scuttled from the dark feared them far more than ever feared the dark itself.

"There is a solace in shadow," the villain said. "Away from prying eyes, and pretence. Is that was frightens you so, then? Knowing exactly what you are in the dark when nobody is watching?"

"You're watching."

"And you're not letting go."

No. The hero wasn't. They were barely even struggling, hadn't thought to try for another light in a while.

"You're scared," the villain said. "But don't worry." They captured the hero's mouth, sweet and aching and hunger-filled. "I don't kiss and tell."

In the breathless aftermath, the hero finally summoned a light. Gentle. Exposing them both. The darkness around them melted away, leaving them uncaged, uncradled. Strangely bereft.

The hero caught a glimpse of the villain's face - not so mocking, raw - and then they stepped back into the darkness and were gone.

The hero was alone, in the light beneath a streetlamp, where they were safe.

And if part of them missed the villain, wondered about that kiss -

Well. They touched a finger to their lip, still tingling, a terrifying and tantalising thing. They were safe.

TimeTravel!AU where post Layton IceMav end up back in time in WWII, and after convincing the US that they're not spies (Ice: I'm a goddamned Polish Jew you think I'd willingly spy for the Axis? Interrogator: That's fair) they convince the Navy to let them fly for them.

It's a little rocky at first, having to get used to much slower aircraft, but once Ice and Mav settle in, they're deadly. Their kill counts quickly soar past Ace to Ace-of-Aces, with whoever is in the top spot swapping dogfight to dogfight.

It takes three years for the Luftwaffe to finally take out the two deadliest pilots to ever fly, sacrificing 20 of their brand new jet fighters to bring them down, losing over half in the process.

What if the comparisons aren't entirely offhand? Not just "you fly like them" but there are people with the clearance to know that the legendary pilots were time travelers and, possibly, their original callsigns. The navy has receipts, highly classified as they are.

Some of these people know that Iceman and Maverick are actually Blizzard and Wild Thing and some of them make the comparison to see if they get recognition. Any sign that they remember. But most of them do think the pair dies when they go down during the war though and that they'll know when the pair disappears one day without explanation.

The officers at USNA who rejected Maverick's application had no idea.

And on the subject of those receipts both of them end up with a highly classified section in their files not long after joining up. As soon as someone who knows realizes.

Then one day someone makes the comparison and Iceman and Maverick exchange a Look. Not long after they end up in a very highly classified debriefing.

(Not Ice, obviously. No, it makes perfect sense that this remarkable young officer resembles the Legendary 'Blizzard' so closely.)

It also makes Mav a bit more out there, as it were, because he's not only trying to escape his father's shadow but the shadow of pilot who went before him, who pioneered the style of flying Mav embodies. It's always a toss up on how fellow officers greet him; will they say 'Oh, you're Mitchell's kid' or 'Hey, you look just like...', and Maverick can't stand it.

Most of senior command is convinced they're going to have to figure out how to cover up Ice and Mav's disappearance, because not only were Blizzard and Wild Thing shot down, their planes were never recovered. It's not until about a year after the Layton that the message comes in with the code phrase they thought they'd never get to use:

The Aces are back in the hole.

Neither of them is a great liar and they’re certainly not up for fake identities. Maverick applies his “you don’t have time to think up there” approach to flying to just about everything in his life which makes him incapable of maintaining a coherent cover story and Ice is too honest for outright lies even if he’s willing to bend the truth to be diplomatic.

On top of that, well, Blizzard and Wild Thing burn in ensuring the success of a critical mission and everyone knows that. National heroes with gravestones over empty plots in Arlington National Cemetery.

(I don’t know nearly enough about WWII to make up something appropriate and I’m not sure how you want the timing to work out wrt them appearing in the past and then “dying” other than probably after Pearl Harbor, but it could be interesting if they show up earlier and end up spinning their wheels until the US joins the war. Possibly even they mention the bombing of Pearl Harbor and when it happens that’s one of the things that convinces people they’re actually time travelers.)  

They don’t know how they got there let alone how to get back and all evidence says they’re stuck. If they’re going to live the rest of their lives here, short as they’ll be, why should they spend the whole time lying?

Their life stories don’t need much doctoring; Mav is the orphan of a soldier who died in action, although they let people assume it happened in WWI, and Ice is the oldest child of a father who always found him wanting. The one thing that has to change is their names.

That part is done mostly without their input. Thomas and Peters are both common enough surnames so they end up Gerard Thomas and Duke Peters, both after their fathers. They mostly call each other Ice and Mav anyway, with the occasional Frosty and Trouble.

(If some of the veterans they met in their past-the future had a few reasons to figure them out that they didn’t share they aren’t going to break their silence just to throw their comrades under the bus. Those two saved all their lives a dozen times over.)

Ice convinces the Pentagon that they're time travelers. He wants wanted to be an admiral and to that end spent a lot of time studying the history and evolution of modern warfare. He knows dates and names and locations which is convincing because why would a spy know so much about every front of the war? What the Japanese are doing and the Germans and the Russians and and and.

But little of that information is useful even if it's convincing. What good does it do them to know Operation Overlord will be a success or the exact day Italy surrenders? How does it help them to know the name of the man who will demystify the enigma machine?

It's Mav who convinces the Pentagon they can be useful. There isn't a plane flown by any military that he doesn't know something about. For the more common ones—his knowledge of the planes flown by the Luftwaffe and Japanese Imperial pilots are especially interesting to them—Mav knows how fast they are, how much force they can withstand, what kind of weapons they usually carried and with how much ammo.

Once he's been questioned for every scrap of information he can remember about planes it's decided that they're already commissioned navy officers and pilots so they may as well take advantage of their competence. It helps that Mav wants to fly so badly he'll agree to just about anything and Ice won't leave his wingman to his own devices.

Ice has put the pieces together already about Blizzard and Wild Thing.

For him the comparison was always complimentary so he didn't fight it as much. He didn't train himself to dismiss all thought of the famous aviators so it's easy for him to read the writing on the wall even before they get their new callsigns. He already knows they won't make it to the end of the war.