#amcssing

@amcssing asked → “ you gonna eat that? ” wally to mark / yeah im back again ( src. / accepting. )

Like in many such prior cases with many other individuals, Mark's first instinct is to just hand over the discarded half of his burger without any complaint.

That's not what he does, though. It's not like he was going to finish it either way, but his second and more important instinct is to be really annoying about the whole situation. There are some real desperate people out there who will only let go of their hard-earned food kicking and screaming—Mark just wants to go out being a little bit of an asshole about it.

"Sorry, I just ran outta all my money and this is the last good burger I'm ever gonna get," he lies. "I mean, I guess you can take it, but I'll just starve to death after. And cry. I'll cry an' I'll starve to death about it. Is that what you want? You want me to die? Wow. What a cruel and unjust world I live in."

He leans back in his seat, offering a look halfway between judging and amused. Then he shrugs, breaking out into a smile.

"Nah, you can have it."

There is something, in them ALL, that aligned with the stars. Those beings, borne of something greater than the fragility of man. She knows not, weather to bow her head, or keep chin high — for, whomever this was, they were certainly not from her home.

bad habits die hard; especially when they don't consider it entirely bad. its always been a talent of his, the disappearing act, since he was a child long before he donned the cape of robin. the circus crew had to be good at not being seen, after all. nightwing had to be even better. he tends to forget that there can be exceptions to this rule----even decades later.

he remembers when he reappears, of course. the mild twinge of wally's mouth makes it obvious. the tiniest pang of guilt hits, but it's replaced with an easy smile and a quip. when he opens his mouth again, he nearly swallows air, and his i told you not to carry me like this is quickly abandoned.

------ " your treat ? " he says between the wind, when wally finally slows enough, when his mask is no longer the thing keeping him from going all but blind in the velocity. when it is safe, mis-matched colored fingers lift to poke the speedster directly on the nose.

" since you asked. date etiquette and all, KF. " a dramatic swing of the legs, a hollywood imitation of romcom tropes, though the wave of giddiness isn't fake.

[  .⠀.⠀.  ] ❛ I  did  warn  you  not  to  trust  me. ❜ , @amcssing (martin chatwin) said.

His words stung, more than she liked to admit — each syllable was a spiked jab, directly aimed at the wall of solidarity and calculated distance she'd built around her very being, the very wall he had somehow, impossibly, already managed to breach. 

Sayuri wasn't one to trust easily. Life had taught her that vulnerability was a liability, a weakness to be exploited, and her every interaction was usually marked with the safe distance she maintained. Martin, however, had managed to instill the slightest sliver of hope within her for a powerful alliance that defied the odds — a hope that was now being declared foolish, stupid, an utter embarrassment.  

A wave of heat flared up within the ghoula, a mixture of shame, raw fury, and the creeping realization that slowly settled into her consciousness, heavy and consuming. For once, she had allowed herself a hint of belief, and he had taken that vulnerability and twisted it into a weapon. The intensity of her emotions was enough to make her clench her fists at her sides, her knuckles bone-white beneath taut skin — her expressions, however, masked her irritation with feigned amusement. A smirk, sharp and brittle, crept onto her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes, her pride forcing her to maintain composure, to not grant him the satisfaction of seeing the boiling turmoil his words had caused within. Fine. If this was how he wanted to play it, she would play along. 

❛ Noted, ❜ she brought out, the sound somewhat strained as it passed through her gritted teeth. ❛ Now, ❜ she continued, her smirk hardening into a predatory curve, a dangerous glint finally flickering in her eyes, ❛ let’s see how much you enjoy having me as your enemy. ❜

@amcssing / CLARK:

clark   over   did   it.   he   set   his   sights   on   the   perfect   date   and   could   draw   a   line   from   start   to   finish   on   how   it   played   out   inside   his   head.   no   sudden   deviations,   no   issues   ———   he   planned   from   letter   a   to   z.   with   the   league   covering   for   him,   he   only   kept   his   ear   to   the   ground   for   the   highest   of   threats.   something   like   an   invasion   or   a   time-traveling   god   running   amok   that   needed   a   good   wallop.   stuff   like   that,   well,   that   might   just   be   a   job   for   big   blue.   although   [   ...   ]   the   real   danger   might   be   in   this   kitchen.   ingredients   were   hacked   into   all   shapes   and   sizes,   pots   simmering   with   undiscernible   concoctions,   and   it   smelt   amazing,   strangely.   no   shortage   of   ma's   teachings   on   cooking   weren't   put   to   use.   (   the   problem:   a   sheer   lack   of   cohesion.   ) he   tried   to   do   everything.   from   the   simplest   dish   to   the   finest,   getting   the   simplest   wine   to   the   fanciest.   [   ...   ]   and   the   fruits   of   his   labors   were   way   too   much   food   for   a   date.   the   kitchen   could've   fed   an   army   with   the   sheer   amount   of   dishes   he   made,   each   putting   his   skills   to   the   test.   if   it   wasn't   for   his   skin   being   harder   than   steel,   he's   sure   his   fingers   would   be   nicked   in   cuts   and   scrapes.   it   couldn't   do   anything   about   the   stains   on   his   apron   or   the   smear   of   flour   against   bronze   cheek.   (   what   to   do   now   ...   he   wonders.   )   it   only   takes   him   a   second   to   ensure   the   burners   are   off   and   the   space   sits   tidier   than   himself.   only   a   few   seconds   to   at   least   organize   the   impromptu   feast   [   ...   ]   least   he'll   have   lunches   for   a   while   ———   plenty,   actually.   a   soft   sigh   eases   from   his   lips;   it's   one   of   the   few   times   his   smile   wavers.   an   air   of   uncertainty,   that   stings   worse   than   any   bullet. would   she   even   like   it?   ...   did   he   manage   to   show   he   cares?   he's   warm,   sunny   and   happy.   stern   if   flexible.   that's   who   he   is   ————   but   he   wants   to   give   her   more.   to   give   her   the   parts   of   him   that   others   can't   have.   a   deeper   look   beneath   the   bleeding   heart,   a   peer   beneath   the   crest   and   into   his   soul.   his   thoughts,   he   knows,   are   hers   to   skim   at   her   leisure.   an   act   he   welcomes,   at   times,   if   it   soothes   her.   but   thoughts   should   become   actions.   actions   should   have   meaning.   he   wants   her   to   understand   him   even   more   &.   wants   the   same   of   her.   a   peer   beneath   the   diamond   to   the   heart   hidden   underneath.   the   door   clicks,   he   at   least   fixes   his   hair   [   ...   ]   it's   easier   than   zipping   off   to   change.   (   she'll   know.   )   still,   when   he   sees   her,   that   unease   fades,   and   he   smiles. ❛   welcome   home.   hope   you're   at   least   a   little   hungry   …   i   might've   overdid   it.   just   a   little.   ❜ / drops this on emma

EMMA:

—— they say the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach  /  well-spread knowledge that aptly denies the existence of a woman’s voracious appetite.  emma was raised in boston:  she would never be one to deny herself a good meal.  (   even for someone with expensive taste,  she has to confess that expensive doesn’t always mean better.  )   michelin has nothing on an auntie that lives three doors down and raised by a mama that fought for her right to cook for herself.

such is to say:  emma smelled it before she even entered the driveway.  she knew something was going on   /   bruce might deny it,  but his mood is different when he lacks his greatest friend.  she can’t blame him.  clark’s absence makes a room feel smaller, colder.  makes her lonely.  but the smell of homecooked meals,  though overwhelming in variety,  smells like a welcome.  she barely remembers to lock the corvette.

door creaks open to a scene so——homely.  domestic.  the smell of spices,  of lard.  of sweat,  vaguely,  beneath it all.  slight burning,  fresh vegetables,  and may the gods have mercy on her for the way her heart beats in her chest.  this is unfamiliar to her:  the ease,  the affection.  the air could suffocate her with love and she thinks,  just this once,  she might be okay with dying.  if her papa had ever told her that she would experience something like this—well, she might’ve thought him possessed.

— “  darling   ...    there’s flour in your hair.  ”

a laugh,  soft and sweet.  fingers reach up to brush that curl that never leaves his brow,  regardless of how he presents himself.  goodness forbid the public realise the cute journalist has the exact same cowlick as their beloved saviour.  but she loves it,  even as she dusts flour from it,  even as she brushes her hand through the rest.  he is tall,  but bent naturally:  a subconscious subservience,  a need to be on the same level.

— “ i’m absolutely famished,  but are you sure cooked enough ?  perhaps i should invite the whole league.  ”

like she would let them have this.  this vision of clark,  disheleved,  humble,  homely.  this was hers.

He’s new, then…

Honestly, he hadn’t noticed the new addition to the neighborhood. His schedule didn’t exactly make conducive for him to “get to know” he people that lived near him. One could argue that he, in turn, should make an effort to get to know them in turn but… the idea never really appealed to him most days — especially in what little free time he had.

It’s not for lack of wanting to but more… the effort it would take to force interactions that would happen eventually.

“...Well… welcome to the neighborhood.” is his greeting, paired with a brief rise and fall of his brows. “Did you… move in recently or has it been a while? You’ll to forgive me for not knowing your face—I don’t think I’ve seen you around much.”

( Unprompted - @amcssing )

❛  your  feathers  have  a  lovely  sheen  to  them  ...  o'  natural,  yes?  must  be.  ❜

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤO' DID THE GODS SMILE UPON HER.

She, with the starry night sky, blotting each feather, each inch of her pelt. MANY, ONCE, thought it a defect ; a mutation, a fault of those that came together, to bear her true. Little did they know ( EVEN LESS, DID THEY CARE ) that their bird was hatched to reach the stars.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤLittle did she, herself, know.

A voice, takes her attention, from perch 'pon tree tall. With the GODS' GRACE, does she flit down, wings spread so that their beauty may be gazed upon proper. Despite her make, oddly enough, her strongest trait was HUMILITY.

She looks upon him, with some curiosity ; for though, she was the fates' mouthpiece, though she told the stories of those upon Olympus high, she could admit with ease, that she did not know EVERYTHING. Claws reach, gently, slowly — only to retract once they came far too close. The clothing bore, was not that of those who would live in the isolated cities. Her own smile, of bi-colored lips, is soft, true.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝ They are now, as the day I hatched. Simply a bit larger. ❞

Talons pace, slow, as not to frighten visitor away. She wonders, in kind, what his skin must feel like. If it had been as soft as her own. She's ALWAYS, been curious of them ( far too courteous, for a harpy to be, ) but kept a fair wing's distance away.

lost the pompt. oops.

she knows. always knows. not like she could be stopped, peppering kisses across her friends' faces regardless. but his is a special target, alight beneath the moon and fireworks. not real ones, magic ones, just for her. the top of the abandoned ferris wheel creaks when they swing a little in the wind, and harley doesn't feel any fear.

only joy. she doesn't need to be this high in the air for brad to give her butterflies, what with all his chaos. everything she loves with none of the hate: he's fun, impulsive, not afraid. but he doesn't leash her, just holds her hand. trusts her to come bakc when she runs away. trusts her to only bite if the bark isn't enough.

trusts her. brad trusts her. harley can count on one hand how many people trust her these days.

the fireworks are on the inside now / a circus in her chest, cheering and drumming. she is a cacophony ! of laughter, of love. she swings her arms around his shoulders and BATHES his face in marks, lipstick that never seems to run out. forehead, cheek, nose, temple, everywhere but----

&&. one planted directly on his lips, sweet, syrupy, overwhelming. she thinks she hears music around them for a second, then she lets him go.