#no one is allowed to be surprised its him

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Smitten to the Stars — Ch.1

PAIRING — Midoriya Izuku/F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — friends with benefits to lovers, angst, mutual pining, smut (safe+beach sex+quirk use during sex), characters are in their 30s, izuku smokes+has one for all+possessive+jealous, no use of y/n SUMMARY — If merely having you in his life means enduring heartache and concealing his true feelings, then so be it. At least, that's Izuku's grand plan until life forces him into the one thing he dreads the most—confessing.

➥ AO3 LINK // ➥ AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥ TUMBLR CHAPTER LIST

CHAPTER WARNINGS — smut, smoking

WORD COUNT — 6.1k

Summer’s storm clouds rolled in as Izuku walked into your apartment building with a skip in his step and a suppressed grin that hurt his cheeks. He hurried to the elevator, past the inattentive guard, and pushed the numbered button to your floor. His excitement could hardly be contained as he shifted his weight, bounced his knee, and glanced every other second at the gifts he held carefully in his hands. With no one but himself around, Izuku allowed the grin to form on his face—what face would you make upon seeing him at your door?

The pungent smell of bleach and floor detergent disturbed his nose as he exited the elevator. He grimaced, looking around for the cleaning lady who was definitely somewhere nearby, and pulled his cap lower, picking up the pace. No way was he about to risk bumping into said woman and waste precious minutes laughing awkwardly in the face of prying questions while convincing her of how he really needed to go.

Stopping in front of your door, he closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, then let go of the air slowly and reached for the doorbell. The shrill sound going off inside your apartment turned his stomach in a fluttering chaos that only escalated when the muffled padding of your feet getting closer and closer reached his ears. While you unlocked the many locks on your door, courtesy of his constant nagging about safety and his complaints about the building not being that secure, Izuku hid the gifts he brought behind his back.

The door slid open, and you came into view, the notion of calmness a foreign concept. Hair damp and dressed in a thin tank top and shorts, both hugging your curves just right, you blinked owlishly at him.

“Izuku? What—I thought you’re coming back tomorrow,” you said in that honeyed voice of yours.

He forced his gaze to stay on your face and face only, not drift lower. “Surprise?”

After studying him for a moment, you stepped aside with a subtle nod, inviting him to come inside. “It kinda is. When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago,” he replied, mindful of his steps as he entered, not wanting to reveal the other surprises just yet.

“Ah, that’s why you didn’t answer any of my texts.”

“I’m sorry! I wanted to, but then I would’ve slipped and told you I’m back.” He smiled sheepishly and brought forth his gifts. “Hope this makes up for it.”

Your expression fell for a brief moment before your lips tilted into a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Nowadays, that look seemed to have found its way in the routine between the two of you, particularly when his gestures toed the line between friends and something more—like now. A friend would visit with a nicely packed container with the reddest strawberries someone had ever seen, but they wouldn’t offer a rose too.

“Thank you,” you said, gingerly taking the rose and the strawberries from him, your fingers grazing his scarred ones. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Crap. He forgot to think of an excuse. “Uh, wanted to see you.” If the earth opened up right then and there with the clear intention of swallowing him whole, Izuku wouldn’t resist. “I mean, friends visit when they miss each other.”

Maybe it was time for him to zip up his mouth before he blurted something he shouldn’t like—

“Are you saying you missed me?”

His throat suddenly felt parched, and he struggled to swallow the saliva that was too thick on his tongue. Given the context of your relationship, your question held two implications, thus his response would be forced into carrying a dual meaning too. “Yeah. I missed you.”

Your gaze wandered below his chin, and Izuku wanted to groan in frustration. Of course, you’d interpret his words with unintended implications; not that it wasn’t true. He was into giving you a friendly hug as much as he was into having your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, sweaty bodies pressed and having their way with each other.

“One of these days I’m gonna chew you out.” You turned away from him, poised to leave the small hallway, apparently not reciprocating his sentiment of friendly longing. “If anyone spots you coming here with roses, rumors will start again. You know you’re already welcome in my bed.”

“I’m not bringing you flowers only because I want to get in your bed,” said Izuku as he took his shoes off and removed his cap, placing the latter on the hallway table beside your house keys.

“No? Then why are you?”

“You’re overthinking it. People have been bringing flowers to each other since the beginning of time, and it doesn’t have to mean a ticket for sex. It can simply be a nice gesture. That’s it.”

“You never skip your roses, Izuku,” you singsonged as you walked away.

Exasperated, he groaned your name. “It just feels wrong not to bring one, okay?”

Just as wrong as holding back on his feelings. He should get over himself and tell you how terribly in love he was with you, ignoring the fear that twisted his gut at the mere thought of it. What if he did and lost you, though? Izuku dragged his feet to where you were—in the kitchen, if the running faucet was anything to go by.

His T-shirt clung to his back uncomfortably. The inside of your apartment was slightly humid, the AC off, but the balcony door wide open. The fragrance of the fruity incenses you lit up like a ritual mingled with the rainy smell of the incoming thunderstorm. Bright-colored walls lacked their usual vibrancy, at fault was the gray light filtering through the open blinds. It was a gloomy sight, to say the least. A sight that did absolute wonders in draining more of his already lackluster energy. Fatigue weighed on him from the trip, made his muscles feel heavy and pressed against his temples in a dull ache.

But did it really matter? He was here, with you, in your presence, after two weeks of not being.

Taking out his phone, Izuku checked the time—five P.M—before muting the device. Unfortunately, his visit would be for a couple of hours only, as he still needed to show up at his agency to deal with some urgent paperwork; his manager was on his case from the moment he woke up in the morning, complaining about the deadline being midnight. Even so, the hours spent with you shouldn’t be disturbed.

“Where did you get these? They’re so sweet,” you asked as soon as he walked in the kitchen.

His attention was on you in an instant, phone long forgotten and slipped into the pocket of his shorts. Perched on the countertop, you munched on one of the strawberries, humming contentedly as you enjoyed the fruit. Izuku’s tired brain processed the sound as a moan, and he regretted wearing pants that were quick to betray the indecency of his thoughts—thankfully, they were dark-colored and not too tight. He cleared his throat and approached you.

“The convenience store a street away, next to the playground.”

“Really? I didn’t know they had strawberries this good,” you said. “Whenever I buy from there, they’re average at best. Guess they brought a new batch, or you’re just lucky.”

Izuku forced a smile on his face. Of course, they didn’t have strawberries like the ones he brought you because he didn’t buy them from there. It was a lie, and he was simply pathetic for lying about it. But you were already scolding him for bringing you flowers. So there was no way he’d tell you about how he researched, while on the plane, where he could get the sweetest, juiciest strawberries in the city after you mentioned yesterday you’d totally eat some. Nor how the place he found was at the other end of the city, on its outskirts, and he used his quirk to get there.

“I guess? You can always borrow some of my luck, you know,” Izuku suggested as he stopped in front of you, slipping his hands into his pockets to stretch the fabric and conceal the signs of his simmering arousal.

“Luck?” You snorted. “More like trouble.” And brought a strawberry close to his lips.

He parted them, accepting the offering that you so nonchalantly pushed onto his tongue. Sweet juiciness burst on it as his teeth sank into the ripe fruit, and Izuku groaned involuntarily at the taste. Making the trip to the other end of the city was worth it. One bite and his palate was satisfied. However, if there was a downside, it had to be the craving for something just a bit sweeter that it triggered.

His gaze fell to your lips, then to your neck, lingering on your breasts for a moment. Hands curling into fists inside his pockets, Izuku trailed his eyes lower to your legs. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, sliding his hands up your thighs and gripping at the flesh. With a silent glance, he asked you to part them for him, wanting to be closer to you.

“Only if you feed me one,” you told him in a smooth tone and nodded to the strawberries.

Izuku picked one up and brought it to your mouth. And so, the show commenced with you as its main character and him as the captivated spectator. As your lips parted to bite into the pulp, so too did your thighs. Some of its juice dribbled down to your chin, and Izuku acted without hesitation. His thumb swept the droplet and brought it to his mouth, where the tip of his tongue licked it off. All the while, he locked eyes with you, watching as yours dilated in response to his action.

His moment of glory met its end quickly when you teasingly slid your ankle up on the outside of his thigh and hooked it on the back, pushing forcefully into his leg. Izuku could have easily resisted and prevented the stumble that followed. However, his confidence received an addicting boost from the way your eyes glazed over whenever his arms caged you in as his body towered over yours. So, why would he resist?

“Good?” he asked, his voice betraying his increasing need.

“So good, but it could be better.”

“It could be—” His mouth lowered to your chin, licking off the sweet stickiness. “—so much better.”

“I think there’s some left here.” You tapped on your bottom lip, then interlocked your fingers behind his neck. “Help me out, Mr. Hero.”

Izuku huffed a laugh and angled his head, so his nose crossed over yours. His lips were a ghostly graze you tried to capture, only for them to slip out of your reach when he moved back a fraction. He lowered his eyes to watch his fingertips brush your collarbone on their way to the top of your breasts, then moved to the side, gliding lower until they stopped on your ribs. The charged tension thickened, his desire intertwining with yours. Born out of different reasons yet so in sync, both ready to consume and be consumed.

You grasped the hand on your ribs and pushed it higher, pressing on his fingers in a silent demand that he touch you. Izuku gave a tentative squeeze that stole a quiet sigh from you. As much as he wanted to tease until you demanded in frustration, his own body was already reaching its limit of how long he could endure the crackling tension. Next time, he promised himself, dragging you to the edge of the counter and grabbing onto your thighs, lifting you off it.

The first raindrops pattered on the windows of your apartment as he left the kitchen. His lips molded perfectly over yours, hungry and chaotic as they nipped and sucked, teeth bumping against each other. With a broken groan, he pushed you up against the wall of your living room. Your tongue poked at his lip as your fingers tangled through his hair, unfairly tugging at the roots. There was no resisting, only surrendering—the proof was in the grunt he let out at the brush of your tongue and the tight grip his hands had on your hips as they ground you down onto him.

The two weeks of absence finally caught up with him, but it wasn’t in the fatigue. It was in the searing longing that burned his rationale to ash and rewired his senses to focus solely on one thing—you. This was the reason the world no longer existed for him until hours later, he assumed, as time was no concern of his either. It was only when you lost control over your trembling and quivered beneath him with exhaustion from your previous orgasms and anticipation of another one.

Outside, the storm raged on, lightning flashing, thunder rumbling, rain coming down in a relentless downpour, soaking the city and your windows. The sound became a constant trepidation drumming in his ears, an inconvenience when all he wanted to hear were your moans and the cries of his name.

“Izuku,” you whined his name and clawed at his back, nails digging into his shoulders. “I don’t—I c-cant. Please.”

“Got you. It’s o-okay,” Izuku panted against your neck before lifting his upper body. Short, deep thrusts fell into a slower rhythm as one hand gripped the headboard, the other hooked your leg over his shoulder. The new angle had you moan out a curse and arch your back, granting him a heavenly sight that made his blood sing in his veins. Beautifully desperate, you rolled your hips, taking what was unknowingly yours.

And Izuku suddenly wanted to take too, not just give. He slowly slid out until only the tip of him remained, then glided right back in. Again and again, he repeated the motion, each time faster, each time harder, each time watching himself disappear and listening to the hitches in your breath.

“You’re incredible, love,” he breathed out, unaware of the nickname he so naturally gave you, and turned his head to nip at your calf. “Feels so fucking g-good. I want more. It’s not enough” were Izuku’s final words before the pace he set knew no mercy. And all you could do was dig your nails in his back and twist the sheets in your fist and grip him tighter and tighter within your wet heat.

Before long, you pulsed hotly around him. Head thrown back into the pillow, eyes closed and mouth ajar, you stilled and came with a broken moan. Feeling how tight you clamped down on him unraveled some of the grip he had on reality. For a brief moment, Izuku wasn’t there; in the next, he was kissing you with a growl, chasing his release with a reckless abandon only you could bring out of him.

“So close—Fuck,” he gasped, pressing his damp forehead to yours.

His cock throbbed, the pressure almost unbearable. Nerves flared with a familiar sensation. Hips stuttered. Muscles tensed and locked his body in place. He came so hard that his head spun, barely able to recognize the strangled moans were his and the intoxicating scent was yours as you pressed his face in the crook of your neck. Izuku huffed harshly, trying to catch his breath, but to no avail; his chest continued to heave, forcing pant after pant out of him.

“You’re trembling,” he heard you whisper and felt your hand rub up and down his back.

Holy shit, he was. He really was trembling.

“Don’t move.” You gently pushed against his hips, guiding him out. Izuku hissed at the sensation, prompting an apology out of you. “Lay down for a moment,” you said, easing him on his back and asking, “Want me to get rid of this?” as you pointed at the spent condom.

“No. I’ll—I’ll do it. Can you please give me a…” He raked his numb mind for the word, missing you reaching for the tissue box on the nightstand.

“Tissue. Here.”

Izuku chuckled. “That. Yeah. Thanks.”

Minutes later, as he sat down at the foot of your bed, Izuku no longer trembled, but wished to crawl out of his own skin instead. You had your chest pressed against his bare back and cheek on his shoulder, fingertips tracing the ugly scar starting at the top and ending just below his elbow. It drove him mad, your touch. Brought up the urge to hold you in his arms, to press soft kisses all over your face, to talk with you about your day, to laugh with you, to—

To show you that he loves you; that was all he wanted.

Izuku struggled to keep his breathing and heart steady; both hurt. Couldn’t even bring himself to say something to distract you from what you were doing, terrified that instead of some random topic, “I’m in love with you” would come out.

His feelings be damned, his fears too. What had to be wrong with him to cower away like this from it? The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue.

Your feelings, his mind supplied the answer. Right, he couldn’t get a read on them. He was so unsure about where your affectionate gestures came from. Izuku couldn’t deny that you cared for him, but the extent of it remained a mystery. Like now, were you kissing that ugly scar of his because you felt more for him? Or because you knew how his scars made him feel at times and, as the wonderful friend that you were, you couldn’t pass the opportunity to reassure him that nothing was wrong with them? Which one was it? He wanted to know. But to know meant to open the topic he dreaded the most.

“Are you staying?” you asked, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“I can’t. Got some paperwork I gotta finish back at my agency.”

“…I see. Well, too bad.” You climbed out of the bed and made your way to one of the drawers in your room, taking out a fresh pair of underwear and slipping it on. Then returned to him and picked up—Izuku’s eyes grew wide—his T-shirt. It looked big on you, yet somehow, somehow it looked so right. “I would’ve made us dinner and agreed to watching that movie you’re excited about but didn’t find the time to watch.”

“Unfair,” he muttered, standing up. “We could still have dinner, though. Can you pass me my phone, please?”

He was seriously hopeless for considering texting his manager and just asking if there was really no way to have the deadline moved. But he couldn’t do that, now, could he? You would certainly express suspicion if he were to suddenly stay after telling you he couldn’t. However, staying an extra hour, or two, now that was something he could do. Somewhat a win-win situation; he got to eat a meal cooked by you, while spending more time with you.

It was almost embarrassing how his priorities fluctuated when you were involved.

Izuku bent over and picked up his boxers, slipping the elastic fabric over his legs, almost hissing as it snapped against his hips. He was sensitive and slightly sore, a good indicator he’d been going at it with you for a while.

“Here.” Your voice sounded off as you handed him the phone, but he paid it no mind, blaming the earlier activities for the oddness.

With thanks, he took it from you and unlocked the device, immediately frowning upon seeing the notification. A message from his mom, reading, “I hope you didn’t forget about your date tomorrow, honey.” He met your gaze, just as lightning flashed, revealing the conflict within.

Did you see the message from his mom?

Great. Wonderful. Lovely.

Frustration surged forth. But did it have a right to? After all, it was his own fault this was happening.

You cleared your throat, gave him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes and tried to brush past him, but his arm held you back.

“It means nothing,” Izuku told you on an impulse. “My mom keeps setting me up on these blind dates and I—” He cut his ramble off when your hand raised and patted his shoulder, the same one you kissed not too long ago.

“No need to explain. You’re a free man, Izuku,” Your words pierced him right in the heart. “We’re just friends who hook up sometimes.”

“Just friends.”

“Sometimes.”

He gritted his teeth at that word. How in the world could it be “sometimes” when in the weeks leading up to his business trip, he practically lived at your place? Almost every day, his steps unconsciously led him to your door, and you let him in each time. Heck, he was there so often that you jokingly asked if he wanted to be roommates besides being friends who hooked up sometimes.

Joke or not, the idea tempted him.

“Right.” His response was dry, but what else was he supposed to say? He checked the time—nine P.M. “Is two hours enough for dinner?”

“If you’re not asking me for a five-star meal and are okay with something simple, but filling, it’s enough time.”

“I’m fine with anything.”

“Great. I should get to it then.” You clasped your hands together and shuffled out of the room, sluggishness visible in your steps.

“Can’t I help you?” Izuku called out after you.

“No. Stay out of my kitchen!”

“You sound like Kacchan,” he muttered to himself and scanned the room for his shorts. Once found, Izuku tossed his phone on your bed and put them on, catching his reflection in the floor-length mirror beside your vanity desk. Scars littered his skin, most of them old. Some faded with time, others were there to stay, but each one of them knew your touch.

His hand drifted to his biceps, thumb grazing over the scar you kissed, scar that he got such a long time ago, when he felt death breathing down his neck for the very first time. Even so, his heart held no remorse because he had saved a life, and that mattered the most.

Izuku told you that story despite his reluctance. While it had a good ending, the journey was horrifying and gruesome; the last thing he wanted was for that experience to haunt your dreams as it still did his at times. His concerns were met with the unexpected when you hugged him tight and began to bawl your eyes out over how he made it sound as if his life didn’t matter.

You told him then, “I will never understand this hero thing fully, but what I do know is that this world would be so much emptier without you in it.” That might have been the moment he realized how deeply his feelings for you were rooted.

If you knew his occasional destructive tendencies weren’t just physical…

So much for being brave and honest, he thought. Izuku searched his pockets for the one unhealthy outlet he had that earned him your glares as Black Whip obeyed his will and snatched the phone off the bed. Moments later, he left your bedroom feeling less confident and more pitiful.

Clinking noises echoed in the small hallway leading to the living room, adjacent to the kitchen, where he knew he would find you wearing your cute apron and a focused expression. With a few long strides, he cleared the distance and peeked into the kitchen, instinctively curling his lips at the sight of you.

“Gonna be on the balcony for a bit,” Izuku announced.

You paused chopping vegetables and pointed the knife at him before slowly moving it towards the drying rack. “Got you an ashtray so you don’t use my glasses as one anymore,” you said, then smacked the back of your hand against your forehead. “Does this mean I’m enabling you?”

“You’re not. I mean, I’m not smoking all the time,” Izuku defended as he grabbed the ashtray, raising it to eye level to inspect it. Carved into the thick glass was an intricate, flowery pattern. Though colorless, there seemed to be something within the glass itself, as each time it caught light, colors glinted off it.

“No? How odd. I don’t recall a single time when I didn’t see you smoke after we…you know.” Your sudden shyness, endearing nonetheless, brought a laugh out of him.

“That’s because the sex is so good. I only do it when that condition is met. You know that.” If his younger self could hear the ease with which he spoke those words aloud without stammering, he’d likely be mortified but proud. Maturing really worked some magic on his confidence.

“Izuku!” Your sharp tone made the smile tugging at his lips blossom into a playful grin on his face, nudging him to walk away before you saw it and decided to chase him around the house, or worse, deny him your food. He needed it today. Soon enough, he’d be on his way to the agency where paperwork would trap him in his office for some time, so feeling full and fuzzy from a meal you made served as a wonderful motivator to get things done.

What he told you, however, wasn’t a complete lie. Behind his excuse for smoking, there was a reason. Cigarettes had found him a few years ago, during a particularly stressful period of his life when the walls felt like they were caving in and the outlets he had weren’t enough. The night it happened, sleep refused to claim him, his mind too occupied with the villain cases he juggled at the time. It was during this time that he also grappled with the realization he was inevitably falling in love with you. To clear his head, he left his apartment to wander the streets.

That didn’t work out too well.

At least, he still had the sense to wear something that concealed his identity as he entered one of the nonstop convenience stores, devoid of any clue about what he wanted to buy. Izuku scanned the shelves for anything that piqued his interest, and he found it just as he was about to leave the store.

Minutes later, perched on a random rooftop, he took his first inhale from the cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger and choked on the smoke. Tears pricked his eyes as his throat and lungs burned and asphyxiated with what he had just inhaled. Izuku was so close to throwing it all away when his muscles suddenly loosened, and he felt his heart steadying in a slower rhythm.

It was both an illusion his stressed mind tricked him into believing and a sensation that had intensified in the aftermath of sleeping with you for the very first time. When it dawned on him that he indeed had you, albeit temporarily and in a friends-with-benefits situation, Izuku didn’t know what to do with himself and the feelings that clawed at his heart, begging to be let out. It not only sent him rushing out of your bedroom as you slept, but also spiraled him into chaos, driving him to the brink of blurting out everything.

The first inhale of the ashy smoke almost made him sick. The second slowed the erratic rhythm of his heart. The third brought more clarity to his thoughts. And on the fourth, the panic in his bones disappeared. A few more inhales and Izuku leaned forward on the balcony railing, with the quiet of the night in his ears and his gaze fixated on the starry sky above. He found himself smiling at the peaceful feeling enveloping him, akin to your embrace.

Although he basked in it and adored every second, his so-called outlet was forever ruined as he subconsciously associated that moment with you. Izuku had soon discovered that you had unknowingly reined in his bad habit, reducing it from a few cigarettes a day to just one—just one cigarette that he always smoked after he had you.

However, if you were to become his, he would quit on the spot. The high and false tranquility he got from it couldn’t stand a chance against the exhilaration he would get from loving you openly and freely. Of that, he was certain.

Setting the ashtray on the window ledge inside your balcony, he shook his head in amusement and chuckled at the dark green lighter present there. Was he that messed up to feel joy at seeing traces of him within your home? Apparently, he was. Though, you allowed it. Didn’t that mean he was important enough in your life? Izuku wasn’t your only friend, yet nothing from the other ones could be found, except in the form of gifts.

He flicked open the cigarette pack with his thumb and took one out, placing it between his teeth and lighting it. As his lungs expanded with the burned fumes, Izuku opened one of the balcony windows. A misty cloud escaped his parted lips into the wet, cool air rushing in. The summer rain continued to pelt the streets under the guidance of the rumbling thunder, each lightning strike exposing how turbulent the clouds truly were.

His trip to his agency was about to be…fun.

Under the cover of your balcony, he smoked slowly, savoring each inhale and exhale. The slight tightness in his muscles eased into a pleasant sensation, causing a shiver to cascade down his bare back. If only time stopped so he could stay in this moment with you. Casting a glance at the door, Izuku’s mind began to wander.

Had it been four years since you had crashed into his arms, bleeding from the back of your head, as he had ushered civilians away from the subway station to safety after a villain incident? It was rather difficult to recall the exact time when he felt as if he had known you all his life. However, the details of that meeting were vividly ingrained into his mind.

Everything happened fast. He turned to check on the subway entrance, only to see you bursting out of the agitated crowd. One moment of distraction was all it took for you to stumble and for his reflexes to kick in. As you cannoned into him, Izuku stumbled backward with a grunt, his arm wrapped securely around your body.

“Are you alright?” he asked once he found his balance, eyes darting to the top of your head.

“Ugh. What’s with you heroes always being in the—“ The words tumbled out of your mouth aggressively until your gaze collided with his. “…way.”

Time slowed, leaving his heart racing. He blinked once, then twice. Nothing changed. The feel of you against his body made shivers dance all over his back and the world to contract around him until you were the only thing he knew was you. His fingers unconsciously curled into your side, and Izuku watched your eyes widen a fraction.

Wrong. This is so wrong, his mind screamed. Snap out of it, Midoriya Izuku. You’re in the middle of a rescue mission!

But your eyes—they were so expressive. He couldn’t abandon them. Not yet. Not when, past the fierce glare, such welcoming softness shimmered. Pretty, he thought, and suffered the consequences of it in the sourness of the guilt coating his tongue. You made his heart skip and his stomach flutter with a nervousness reminiscent of his younger days.

“Do you mind?” you asked, and his ears perked up at the smooth timbre of your voice. “Hello? Deku? You’re Deku, right?”

Deku? Right, that was his hero name—

“Huh? I’m sorry. What?”

You sighed and averted your gaze briefly, your nose scrunching up cutely. “Please let me go. People are starting to stare and I’m not interested in being involved in a scandal with you. Besides, I got somewhere to be, and I’m running late because of that dumb villain who couldn’t choose another day.”

Although you talked fast, the words were so clear he had no trouble keeping up. Were you maybe a—What was he thinking?! This wasn’t the time nor the place. And he most certainly shouldn’t be curious about you, a random woman who happened to pinch at his heartstrings for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Izuku stumbled back, his arm falling from your body, and immediately lowered his head with an apology. “I’m so s-sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

You simply brushed past him, not waiting for him to finish what he wanted to say, which was…what exactly? How sorry he was for staring at you like a lovesick fool? Embarrassment flushed his cheeks, but it didn’t stop him from turning around and scanning the crowd for your retreating figure. His eyes grew wide as he noticed the stain on the collar of your dress shirt, a vivid crimson against the fabric.

“Wait! You’re bleeding!” he called out and bolted after you.

Although there were still people in need of help, he just upped and left the scene to chase you down—a stranger who bled. That was it. That was the reason he went after you. You bled, meaning you were hurt, and he was a hero, so he had to help you.

Black Whip shot out from his hand, lighting fast, and wrapped around your running form, forcing you to halt. A moment later, you were in his arms, squirming and pushing against him, sharply telling him to let you go because you had somewhere important to be.

“You’re bleeding, so please, stop resisting. It’s important to have that checked out” was all he said, his voice dropping into the authoritarian tone that was reserved for people who gave him a hard time when all he wanted to do was his job.

Your eyes narrowed as you patted the back of your head, hand returning with smudges of crimson. “Oh” fell from your lips, sounding unimpressed. “Put me down, please. I can walk to an ambulance by myself.”

“Something tells me that’s not what’s gonna happen if I put you down,” Izuku countered and glanced at you. “Am I wrong?”

Your only response was to roll your eyes and scoff at him. “I guess your stubbornness is not just a PR stunt. Just so you know. If I lose this contract, I’m blaming you for it,” you threatened, voice dripping with sweet poison. “And if we end up in a scandal, I’m blaming you double.”

Izuku snorted in amusement, then broke into quiet laughter. Your boldness to look him dead in the eye and threaten him as he helped you was oddly refreshing given that people were inclined to either panic or stay silent; it somehow reminded him of Kacchan too.

“I can assure you there won’t be any scandal, so all that’s left is your, uh, contract. Would you like me to take responsibility for it right away?” he asked, equally serious and jokingly.

You eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, and without warning, leaned in closer to his face, saying, “How about…no?”

Izuku’s steps had faltered at the proximity, breath hitching as he had looked down at you—at your sardonic smile. Insincerity met sincerity because the smile playing on his lips was honest. Too honest, maybe. Too wide, and a bit too casual.

For someone who had been in a relationship at the time.

Although he couldn’t have been more wrong about your involvement in a scandal with him, looking back on it, he held no regrets in his heart. The relationship between you and him was no doubt complicated, but in spite of it, Izuku found happiness in it. You were part of his life, making it so much brighter and colorful, how could he not be happy and grateful for it?

“Izu! Food is done.” He blinked the memory away to see present you peeking into the balcony. “Let’s eat. You have to go in an hour.”

Drawing one final puff from the cigarette, he stubbed it out in the ashtray and moved to you. His hand pressed on the small of your back, guiding you forward as his head lowered. He kissed your hair, unspoken words on his lips and overwhelming emotions in his chest, murmuring, “Thank you.”

You moved back, tilting your head cutely. “For?”

For existing. “For saving me from starving today.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Your agency has awesome food.”

“But it’s not—“ He swept you in his arms and made his way to the kitchen, following the delicious aroma drifting from within. “—your cooking.”

[offdxty]

As Kane takes his shower, he's aware of that man - that security guard without a name - moving within the tight space of his bathroom; He can spot it from the corner of his eyes, the way the other picks up his clothes and inspects them - the dried blood soaked into white fabric. It causes an odd feeling to rise inside Kane, the knowledge that someone's judging something he'd just worn; That feeling only gets amplified by the very same clothes being thrown into the bin, just like that---

Kane blinks, turns his head back around, allows a second to pass - then begins his methodical sequence of cleaning the body, because this time he's not here to enjoy the warm spray of the water.

That's what he did, in the early morning - enjoyed it to be here, enjoyed it to tilt his head back, close his eyes, feel the moisture covering his features, warming up sleepy skin with something akin to a gentle embrace. He'd taken his time, showered for a few minutes longer than usual, just because it had given him a happy boost of sorts---

Now, however, none of this is happening. There's no comfort, no embrace, no kindness existing that soaks into his tissue, his bones - there's just disgust, fear, humiliation and dread that spreads, curls its cold hands around a set of firm shoulders, breathes along a neck, sends tendrils down the shape of an abdomen, legs, feet.

The soap smells as it always does - clean, sterile - as Kane rubs it against his skin in quick, jerky motions - arms, throat, neck, upper body, stomach. It stings when he applies pressure to where his skin is bruising, but it's ignored, pushed to the side, not important at this very moment. Hands follow the motions from before, massaging the suds in, unkind and rough despite the skin of fingertips being soft, gentle---

That asshole speaks, mentions new clothes.

---Sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

On his bed. Not here, not on top of the closed toilet lid - but over there, where cameras are always watching, witnessing, recording, storing information to be used to one's leisure.

Where people watch. Where people sit in front of monitors and observe, take in the sight, notice every little detail about whoever exists within that room.

Kane, not-Kane, it swallows, hard. His expression does not change, but has since lost a bit of that previous hesitance, turned into stone instead; Nostrils flare as he inhales, as Kane takes the soap again and begins to work on his lower half - cleans his legs, his feet, the area that's very much private and not meant for anyone to be seen besides himself.

...Perhaps all of this - the humiliation, degradation, dehumanization - does push him to develop further, as horrible as it is; Kane hasn't really put his mind on such things before - his body, his privacy. On personal space, shame, embarrassment.

But now he does. There is a concept existing and he's gotten the feeling served to him on a silver platter - changed the concept into a truth, into an existent thing, which he now has to go through and face in the worst way possible.

The suds are washed off, the sequence ending - another swallow, brows remaining knitted as Kane turns off the shower, stays quiet for the whole of it. He grabs the towel to his right, hanging outside the open shower stall, as it always does, and begins to dry himself off; It scratches, the fabric a little rough, but he's used to it, doesn't think about how he'd prefer something softer, something gentle rather than what this is - he rubs the cloth over shoulders, arms, an upper body, through his hair, before following with his legs, feet, the private parts.

All of this is done with his back remaining turned to his visitor, granting himself the precious last moments of somewhat-privacy that are about to slip away from him, out of his grasp, into someone else's hands.

There's only two possible ways for him to face what's coming now, to endure the obvious humiliation - and, to Kane's own surprise, he's very much clear about them, a thought-process appearing behind his inner eye, already formed into a complete structure for him to think about:

He can be ashamed, can try to hide himself behind his hands - try to walk sideways perhaps, or backwards so as to make those cameras see his back rather than his front. He could curl into himself, grab the bedsheets, wrap them around himself, and then proceed to put his shirt on, which will be long enough to give him a hint of coverage upon dropping the previously mentioned bedsheets. His pants would follow, then his socks, and he'll curl into himself once again upon taking a seat on the bed.

There's no control within any of what he does, then - not for him, not for his existence. He'll give all of it to whoever watches, whoever takes it in, the sight of the subject scrambling to keep himself covered up - including that asshole, the sick bastard that enjoys all of this a little too much.

But there's another option existent:

Kane could do none of this, could take all of this into his own hands instead - could remain standing straight, could walk out of that room with his head held high, without trying to rush, without curling into himself and scrambling to get his hands onto the bedsheets. Could claim ownership of his own body, could gather confidence about the way he looks - the fact that he's being presented in such a way, forced to dehumanize his own self by leaving the bathroom stark naked.

Which would cancel out at least a part of the dehumanizing aspect. If Kane's the one to take the shame and push it to the side, there won't be any shame left - and, without shame, it would feel a lot less devastating than it would under any other circumstances.

An exhale of air, a body being dry enough for now, and Kane, not-Kane, it, hangs the towel back over that hook that has been drilled into the wall - into the tile, having caused it to crack. Whoever did this hadn't been careful enough; it almost feels like a flaw in the concept, as everything else is so neat and sterile, so overly perfect and flat.

A decision is being made, as he allows himself to stand there, for another moment - a decision about what he wants to do, how he wants to take what's meant to hurt him, to slice him open, to make him break---

A blink, and he turns. No hands reach to cover himself, no shoulders pull inward, no spine begins to curve; Kane just remains standing as he faces that man, that asshole, with the whole of who he is: His firm expression, complete with knitted brows and tight lips, his naked body with a tattoo that decorates his left pectoral and blooming bruises, his wet curls, water dripping from individual strands; Kane lifts an arm, brushes digits through his locks, smoothes them against the shape of his head and out of his face as his eyes remain glued to the one who's caused him so much pain for the whole of the day.

No words are spoken - there's no need for such to happen - as Kane, not-Kane, it, begins to walk - passes that security guard without hesitation, steps into the room where dried blood and saliva still sticks to some of the floor tiles, where cameras are watching, looking, staring from all sides. He doesn't rush, doesn't try to make it quick - almost comes across as utterly nonchalant, as if he couldn't care any less about what's being done to him---

He even goes as far as looking up at that one camera that's closest to the bed, its red light continuing to blink as it always does - and Kane's bright irises, made of white and green, of blue, red, yellow and pink, linger. They linger, linger a bit longer...

Seconds pass, only then that gaze trails away, focuses on the clothes instead. Kane proceeds to dress himself - puts on his underwear, his socks, his pants, his shirt. Once again, he isn't doing any of this in quick, hurried motions - he remains calm, unbothered, even takes his time to fiddle a bit with his shirt before it finally sits right on him.

On the outside, he acts collected. Smooths out his bedsheets, even, once he's done with putting on his clothes. Takes a seat right after, hands folding on top of his lap.

On the inside, he's boiling - boiling with rage, anger, frustration, sadness. He feels too seen, too exposed---

But it was his decision to make. He decided to put himself on display by not trying to hide, not scrambling to get his body covered up.

And... it helps, in a way that feels new, foreign to him - but it does, makes it easier to endure, takes away some of that inner pain, the hurt, the degradation.

He can only be dehumazined if he allows for it to happen - if he feels a certain way about it all. If Kane doesn't, it suddenly isn't as bad anymore. He's in control of his own body. He's in control of what he wants to do with it.

Another inhale, gaze avoiding the one who's with him, still - they stare at the opposite wall instead as insides fight to remain calm, to keep him steady, to prevent Kane from breaking apart under the sheer pressure of it all.

To make him appear neutral, unaffected - to not give whoever watches the satisfaction to see him struggle, see him break. It's all that matters.

Six didn’t move. Not when the socks came off, nor the pants, nor even when Kane’s entire form seemed to curl with the desire to be anywhere else but here, now in front of him. Six just stood there, watching, waiting; his hands stayed where they were, on his belt, his fingers idly tapping. His eyes stayed on the man, refusing to wander - they clung to the man like old poison, drifting over him and taking in every bit of his discomfort with that sick appreciation. 

He smiled. 

It wasn’t a grin, this time - it was something smaller, hungrier, crueler. It felt like he had found an animal on the side of the road, and he got the opportunity to watch it die; it was a sick fascination, but one he was so deeply in love with.

This made his job worth it, entirely. 

“Well,” he said after a beat, that familiar smile on his face. “Would you look at that. Not even making me raise my voice - good. I like that in a guy.” 

His boot shifted across the floor as he stood straight again, his back peeling from the wall. He took his time crossing the short distance into the bathroom, the soft scrape of leather soles trailing alongside the click of the steel reinforced toes. 

He scooped up the folded stack of clothes in one hand, flipping the shirt with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. He let out a sound alongside it - the clothes were disgusting, blood dried into the fabric, making them stink. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. “This shit’s disgusting.” 

He tossed the stack - the shirt, the pants, the underwear, all of it - into the open trash can near the corner. The thunk of fabric landing was a bit louder than it should have been, likely just due to the semi-confined space; the sleeve of something hung out, limp and useless, like a hand reaching for something it couldn’t grab. 

Six didn’t look at it, however, instead going back into the room to grab a new outfit. An act of kindness, he would claim; he grabbed another full outfit, piece by piece. Pants. Shirt. New boxers. Even a fresh pair of socks. He hummed to himself in silent approval, picking up the stack. 

He placed them, neatly, in the center of the mattress. 

He wanted it far away from the bathroom door. He wanted to make the man walk for them - he wanted to cut off the allowance of privacy, if Kane wanted to cover up.

Six was wearing a grin again as he walked back toward the bathroom, leaning once more against the wall. 

“All set,” he informed. “I got new clothes for you, on the bed - and we’ll leave the towel in here. They don’t want you taking it out of this… bathroom area. Y’know. Protocol, and everything.”

His eyes were sparkling, cruel. “Take your time, though. I wouldn’t want to rush you - I’d hate it, if you were uncomfortable.” 

─── ⋆⋅⚖️⋅⋆ ─────────────────

There was always something humming in the walls, here. The vent in the far corner, the buzzing overhead in the lights. The soft, repetitive sound of the camera in the corner; maybe it was adjusting focus again. Probably. He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t sure how long he’d even been sitting here. 

Arthur blinked slowly, expression neutral. 

The sedative wasn’t strong, not enough to make him sleep or to make his limbs useless, but it was enough to make things blur together at the edges. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, his thoughts had weight that slowed him down. Thinking took a bit more effort, a bit more focus. 

He hadn’t pulled his gaze away from the screen, though. It was a narrow monitor, now, one bolted to the wall - there were no buttons, no controls. It was just made for him to keep an eye on Kane, when he was in his personal room - a camera angle that never changed, that showed the entire room, that showed Kane. 

Shower water ran in the background, adding to the blur of noise around him. It was just audible enough for Arthur to know what it was, Kane hidden by a wall of frosted glass - but Arthur had seen enough. 

His head was in his hands, fingers parted to keep his eyes open to the screen. He pushed his fingertips harder into the corners of his eyes, slowly, as if he could hold himself in place if he just pushed hard enough; his body was trembling. It wasn’t due to the medication. It was himself, his thoughts, his feelings - it was every part of him reacting. 

“Stop,” he whispered, as if saying it might do something. As if anyone was even listening; as if he wasn’t just talking to himself. “That’s enough. He’s complying, he’s — fuck. Fuck.” 

The water kept running. 

Arthur shifted his hands, pushing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. It wasn’t enough, of course; it was never enough. Bottling was never enough, lying was never enough, nothing was ever enough- 

With a choked, guttural noise, Arthur struck. Hard. He heels of his hands slammed into his closed eyes, once, twice, grinding upwards into his brow as if he could beat the images out. As if he could blur out Kane’s body from behind his eyelids, as if he could erase every bit of guilt that was tied to every second of this. 

His teeth grit so tightly that he felt something click, a hot exhale ripping from his throat as he struck again, harder. 

“Fuck!” 

His chair scraped against the floor as he moved to his feet, too fast and too unsteady, staggering to the wall that the damned screen was bolted to. His palm slapped flat against the cold tile, his breath coming shallow and fast, his body wracked with tremors as his forehead pressed hard against tile. 

It only lasted a moment. It only ever did - the heat burned itself out, the same way all of Arthur’s anger did. It was nothing but a forest fire extinguished by a breeze, drowned out by exhaustion rather than peace. 

Arthur’s fingers curled against the wall, his gaze locked onto the floor.

For the moment, he refused to keep watching. 

[faramirsonofgondor]

Okay, so I'm just going to throw this at you because I have way too many WIPs on my plate, a document of more than 130K words of ideas, and I just love the way you think on the prompts you've been given. So here we go:

There are so many fics and AUs where someone goes back in time, or just their consciousness, or what not, and they always end up changing things for the better. Sometimes for the worse. Except its always been one of the "good guys". What about one of the "bad guys". Say... Ra's Al Ghul? He goes into the Lazarus pit like he is know to do, but when he comes out it's years earlier. Like everything he's seen and done the past X number of years was a vision given to him by the Pit. His daughter is much, much younger. Damian has not been born. The Detective has not been returned to his city for more than a few years. In his research on his chosen heir he see the headline pertaining to the Wayne Foundation Benefit Circus, realizes it is the day the first child/protege of the Detective comes into the man's life.

Would he allow it? Would he permit Richard Grayson to change the man? To alter what he has always felt Bruce's destiny was? Or would he stop the boy? Save the parents maybe so there's no reason for Bruce to take him in? Would he eliminate the boy along with his parents? Or, would he remember the potential and accomplishments of Richard/Robin/Nightwing and wish to harness that for himself?

Thoughts, if you have any?

OOOOH Ok but how about this: He knows that Dick is the first kid to come into Bruce’s life, but he’s not the only one. Ra’s sees it as Bruce having an adoption problem, and though Dick might’ve been the catalyst there’s no saying how he would react even if he never had Dick. Bruce would be easier to control using variables that Ra’s is already familiar with. So he lets Bruce take in Dick, but he also remembers how Bruce was after Jason died and decides that he should move up the timeline.

Except, Ra’s doesn’t exactly remember everything that went on during Dick’s time as Robin, so most of the things that happen are still the same, except Dick got a lot more scars along the way. He nudges Deathstroke in their direction, remembering the man’s rivalry with Dock and hoping that the man will try to eliminate him. Only, Slade becomes obsessed and decides to train the kid instead (which happened in the last life but Ra’s doesn’t remember it). Once the kid goes back to Bruce, he’s all moody and traumatized, which Ra’s hopes is enough to spur Bruce into killing. It isn’t.

So Ra’s sends Talia like he did last time, not wanting to mess up and lose his heir, but unlike last time, he doesn’t instruct Talia to drive a wedge between Bruce and Dick. Instead, he tells her to make sure that their relationship is better than ever, hoping that if Bruce becomes even more attached to Dick, then losing Dick will hurt more. She does so, but as time goes on, Ra’s starts to realize that Talia has grown attached to Dick. Once she’s pregnant with Damian, he orders her to come back immediately, but he’s surprised to find that she protests vehemently. Eventually, he gets her to come back under the threat that he would kill Dick, her, and her child.

However, once Talia leaves, Dick and Bruce’s relationship starts to take a turn for the worse. Bruce is more controlling in the loss of his lover, not wanting to be left again. Dick is desperate for freedom and independence, fighting against Bruce’s controlling nature. Ra’s tries one last time, having his assassins break Joker out of Arkham so that Dick could get attacked by him and push Bruce into killing him. It doesn’t work, Dick gets shot and leaves and now Bruce is alone.

So Ra’s is just like “fine, guess I’ll just stick to what happened last time” and decides to make sure Bruce adopts Jason and gets him into vigilantism. Except he may have also overshot it slightly because he witnessed the fallout of Bruce and Dick’s relationship, and was like “obviously this man cannot be trusted to handle these kids alone, he needs someone to mediate” and so he lures Dick back into their lives the night after Bruce takes in Jason by leaving some creepy note and photos of Jason and Batman. Dick understandably is like “wtf Bruce” but he warms up to Jason a lot quicker and does eventually end up mediating some conflicts between Jason and Bruce, despite the fact that his relationship with Bruce is still less than stellar.

Of course, Ra’s still wants to push Bruce into breaking his code and into reaching “his full potential” and decides to go with the tried and true method of Jason’s death. He waits til Dick is in space then orchestrates a fight between Jason and Bruce while leaving a trail that will lead Jason to his mother, all while nudging Joker in their direction. Jason dies again, except Joker got to spend much more time with him because of how Ra’s had pushed things along. Bruce can barely recognize his son by the time he gets there.

Ra’s waits in anticipation for Bruce to kill Joker. He watches as Bruce gets more and more violent, more and more reckless, and as he gets closer and closer to crossing the line. Bruce tries to kill Joker, once, but is stopped by Superman. Ra’s still has hope that Bruce will kill Joker (or someone else), especially considering that Bruce and Dick are back to fighting with each other again. Then Tim shows up, and Bruce starts losing his momentum, his temper cools gradually, though not completely. Ra’s wants to scream in frustration, but he’s distracted by Jason’s revival and sudden arrival at Nanda Parbat. He had almost forgotten about that, but decides to use this all to his advantage.

He breaks the Joker again (he really should realize that this method isn’t working for him) and sets up a scenario so that Bruce thinks that Joker killed Tim, then places cameras around the room to show Jason how Bruce reacts. He’s hoping that when Jason sees Bruce’s failure, he’ll be persuaded to lure Bruce towards the “right” path. Except Batman doesn’t get there first. Nightwing does. Ra’s, Talia, and Jason all watched in muted horror/fascination as Dick beats the Joker to death, and then beats him a little more. Maybe Ra’s shouldn’t have underestimated the kid so much.

Batman shows up eventually, and ends up reviving Joker, but Ra’s was already starting to reevaluate his plans. Maybe Batman would never break his rule, but clearly Nightwing could be persuaded. Ra’s spends time reassessing and redoing his plans, and by the time he’s ready to bring Nightwing to Nanda Parbat, the Blockbuster debacle has already happened and the Gang Wars are coming to an end. The girl-Robin dies which gives Ra’s the perfect opportunity to snatch Dick and integrate him into the LoA.

Obviously, Ra’s doesn’t actually snatch him. But he does send some assassins to persuade him to come with them, and fortunately Dick doesn’t need much persuading. Apparently, all his fights with Batman had led to him chucking his morals out the window, which was great for Ra’s plans. Once Dick was in the League, he adapted surprisingly well. It was almost unnerving how well. It rankled Ra’s, how perfect Dick seemed to be. Ra’s could hardly find any mistakes in his fighting ability or intelligence. It was beginning to frustrate him to no end. He even got Deathstroke to train the boy more, and Lady Shiva as well, but Dick quickly surpassed their skill. It seemed as though he was even inventing his own moves and style of fighting? Ra’s wasn’t sure how he could have overlooked such an obvious threat, though for now he did nothing about it considering the boy seemed perfectly happy living under Ra’s thumb. Ra’s was just glad Dick was unaware of Jason’s presence, otherwise shit would get messy real quick.

Unbeknownst to Ra’s, Dick was very much aware of Jason’s presence. See, in another timeline, the first timeline, Ra’s would order his daughter to sew tension between Bruce and his first child, and in doing so, created a decades-long animosity between Talia and Dick. But in this timeline? Ra’s has Talia mediate the relationship between Bruce and his ward, and in doing so, creates an unbreakable bond between Talia and Dick. Talia may have pretended at first, but Dick had wormed his way into her heart, and now she saw him as her first child in a way. He made her want to change, to do better. He was the bright spot in the darkest times of her life. It broke her heart to have to leave him and Bruce, and since that day her hatred for her father grew and grew.

She realized early on that Ra’s was involved in plans to hurt Dick, and she tried her best to intervene when she could. To her horror, Dick was hurt anyways and ended up leaving Bruce. It hurt her heart to see two people she loved more than anything fight the way they did, but she knew Ra’s was mostly to blame, so she settled for revenge. She would wait until Damian grew, then they would end Ra’s together and return to their family (if they were still alive by that point - and Talia desperately hoped they would be).

Jason threw a wrench in those plans, seeing as his presence seemed to help bridge the gap in Bruce and Dick’s relationship. But then he died, and Talia knew, she knew, her father had been behind this. She debated going to Bruce with this information, but she didn’t have enough evidence yet and she wasn’t sure how her beloved would respond. Plus, she needed to know why Ra’s was doing this, what his end goal was, and she wouldn’t be able to figure that out if Bruce decided to act on his anger. She decided to get into contact with Dick instead, seeing as Ra’s wasn’t monitoring him as much as he was Bruce. When she found about Jason’s revival, she told Dick immediately and they started coming up with ideas on how to get him away from Ra’s. Dick understood that for their plans to work, Bruce couldn’t know, though Dick didn’t really like keeping such a big secret from the man. But Bruce tended to get tunnel vision and he had control issues, he would want to be in charge of making the plan and he likely wouldn’t agree with Talia’s plot to kill Ra’s.

It was a bit of a surprise, when Dick killed Joker, but Talia couldn’t really the blame the man. Still, she worried as Dick seemed to get more and more traumatized, and as more and more evil landed on his doorstep. When Dick finally ended up in Nanda Parbat, it took more restraint than she was willing to admit to hold off on embracing him. This would only work if they kept their cover. Still, despite Dick’s competency and clear dangerousness, Ra’s seemed to underestimate them while he poured his time and resources into keeping an eye on Bruce and the third Robin. Dick didn’t interact with Jason, still scared to be found out by Ra’s, but they did pass messages through Talia. Damian had also taken quite the shining to Dick. If it were anyone else, Talia would be envious of the amount of attention Damian gave to him, but this was Dick and so Talia understood completely. Dick had taken to calling Damian “his little Flamebird” in private. Once Talia understood the context behind the name, she felt honored on Damian’s behalf.

However, despite the emotions swirling between them, they still had coup to plan. Talia was both relieved and a bit worried about how easily Dick persuaded people to join them, but then again he had always been a people-person and a good conversationalist. In the end, it was Talia, Dick, Jason, Deathstroke (which Talia did not have the time to question), Lady Shiva, Lady Shiva’s daughter (???), and a little over half of the League that went up against Ra’s. Dick moved with a fluidness and vengeance that Talia had never seen before. As promised, he and Deathstroke gravely injured Ra’s, but left the killing blow up to her.

Ra’s hadn’t seen any of it coming. Here he was bleeding out, watching as Talia approached. His only hope was that his daughter or someone loyal to him would throw him back into the Pit, and he would get another chance. Next time, he would do things differently. Next time, he would kill the brat before Bruce even looked at him. Next time, he would ensure both his daughter’s and Bruce’s total submission to him, and him alone. Next time, he would-

There was no next time, because before Ra’s could even finish his thought, his head was at Talia’s feet. Things were different, now. Talia was softer, but no less determined. Dick was sharper, more jaded, but no less kind and loyal. Bruce was darker, but no less loving. Jason was angrier, more traumatized, but no less protective and caring. They might have more trauma, more hurt and pain and and scars anger and darkness within them, but they were a family, and they were all willing to try for each other.

[hopefulceladon]

︶⊹ morning's respite | sunday x reader

summary: because how could a man logically yearn for all to experience rest, when he refused to seek it for himself? notes: being a sunday yearner in 2025 is... hard. but it's okay because he's also just as much of a yearner in this fic so i think it cancels out maybe? my self-indulgent worms have struck again... word count: 1.7k ao3 link: here!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ ⋆ ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was tremendously hard to tell if it was morning or not.

As a passenger aboard the Astral Express, you were no longer in the audience of a daily ritual of sweet birdsong that announced the start of daybreak, nor did a shimmering sun mercilessly cast its awakening glare upon your poor, weary eyes, for all signs of cyclical nature had been replaced by an endless array of stars.

But even if the start of your days lacked the sight of newborn sunshine, the very kind that stained sleek curtains with gold and painted the perimeters of any chambers with a brush dipped in daylight, one glance at the slumbering Halovian next to you was enough to reaffirm your belief you’d never willingly trade away what you were currently privy to.

Sunday, whom always made sure he arose from the vices of slumber before anyone else on the Express had a chance to, was still weighing down his side of your shared bed, quiet and peaceful as his chest steadily rose and fell.

The flesh of his left cheek was smushed against the soft pillow that cradled his head, and his pale gray hair, which remained relatively unscathed from the whims of his nightly tousling, had fallen across his face and fringed itself in a way that, somehow, only drew out the vulnerability he had always kept stowed away during the waking day.

His long lashes would occasionally, slightly, flutter once or twice, as if he were about to stir awake, but it was always followed up by a firmer shift towards the bedding in an unconscious search of more comfort. such a set of motions clutched your heart and squeezed it until every staggered beat served as a gentle reminder of how deeply and dearly you adored him.

He truly was a precious, heavenly sorts of sight, after all, wasn’t he?

If you weren’t fearful of rousing him, you would’ve already allowed yourself the pleasure of cradling Sunday’s unsquished cheek against the cup of your palm, allowing your touch to encompass the softness of his skin.

It was solely by a miracle that you refrained.

As you tried to dispel your desire to hold your beloved close, you distracted yourself with the notion that you'd utilize this current time to, for once, be the one to complete the morning tasks Sunday always partook in.

With all the intent in the universe to finally unravel yourself from the comfortable bedding that clung to you like a warm embrace, you lifted yourself away from the mattress, only for your efforts to be swiftly silenced by the sound of a hand rustling atop the sheets, carefully seeking out your flesh amidst silk.

In your peripheral vision, you glanced at the pale hand that pressed yours flat against the giving surface.

“...my star?”

Sunday’s voice, soft in tone, yet laced with the amount of weariness one would expect from someone half-asleep, made you give complete pause.

How could he still sound so angelic, even now?

“You’re... up.” you whispered, moreso like it were an absolute statement, and not the question it was meant to be.

“I... It is nearly the set time I always get up—” Your eyes trailed to the alarm clock upon your nightstand. 6:30. Of course, you knew Sunday always began his days before anyone else did, but you never expected it to be this early. “—so, truly, a difference of a few minutes shouldn’t come as such a surprise...”

“I didn’t even know when your alarm was set for,” you said quietly. “...but that does explain why the bed’s always cold in the morning.”

You met Sunday’s eyes in time to witness the guilt that flashed across his features, marring the once peaceful expression. With his gaze now averted and his wings slightly drooping with shame, Sunday simply murmured a ‘I'm terribly sorry...’ filled with remorse in return.

Regret was quick to burn deep within your throat.

It didn’t take long before you squeezed your fingers around his in a rushed effort to show him reassurance, “It’s alright,” you whispered, even if deep down you were certain you knew the reasons behind his habits, even if because of such aforementioned reasons, you knew it was everything but alright. “I understand.”

Sunday seemed to relax, softening the tensed grasp he held your intertwined fingers in.

Taking the leverage as a chance to scoot yourself closer, you laid back down alongside him.

“I understand, because you’ve always been like this, my love,” you finally continued, watching your thumb idly brushing over his knuckles. “...early to rise, hardly ever slumbering, all in the name of servitude—I understand , I truly do,” your eyes flitted back up to meet with his, and you really did try your best to conceal your worry. “...but, when will you realize it no longer needs to be like this?”

Despite your attempts at persuading him, Sunday remained obstinate. “So long as I stay upon the Express, my obligation to be remembered as a helpful passenger, rather than a past hindrance, will remain as a high priority,” he paused solely to take a deep breath, as if reassuring himself that, yes , these truly were the words he’d choose to stand by. “...even if it means operating upon such... admittedly, inadequate rest.”

Your stomach churned at the notion that he was still so deeply troubled by the Charmony Festival debacle.

“You don’t have to still punish yourself like this,” you whispered, brows furrowed as your hand reaching up to finally wedge itself between his pillow and his cheek. “...please, show yourself the same grace you’ve shown countless others in the past.”

Sunday went quiet at your words, resorting to only taking a soft, deep breath, his expression unreadable as he weighed out your sentiments.

“I... merely wish I could see myself the way you see me,” he murmured moments later, his voice cracking and nearly successfully urging your heart to do the same. “I would love to, one day, be able to live up to the man your words paint me out to be.”

For whatever reason, you chuckled wearily at his remark, a sound bubbling with both misery and adoration. “Oh, my silly birdie,” you pressed your forehead up against his and forced down the loving tears that began to well at the corners of your eyes. “...why can’t you see that you already do?”

Sunday didn't respond.

As you trailed intricate, senseless patterns with every pass of your wandering fingertips all atop the expanse of his silk-clad canvas, Sunday’s free hand reached out to cease the motions, grasping your hand softly and bringing it up to his lips.

Sunday deliberately chose to squeeze his eyes shut before he started to brush fleeting kisses atop each and every one of your knuckles, almost as if he feared he didn’t deserve to delight in the sight of your reaction.

His lips froze against the last remaining bump once sudden realization struck him.

“...strawberries.” he murmured softly to himself, his words muffled against your skin.

“Huh?”

“You smell like strawberries,” Sunday rushed to explain, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to pick up upon his musings. “I... simply didn’t notice until now.”

You cracked a small, wistful sorts of smile at his clarification. After all, it had only been a few weeks prior that March had, with an ‘innocent’ grin on her face that was accompanied by a far-too-knowing wink, handed you a bottle of strawberry lotion minutes after noting your dry knuckles, rubbed raw and cracked from the constant streams of water you ran them under whenever you washed the dishes by Sunday’s side.

In truth, you weren’t certain if you’d enjoy such a scent permeating off your skin, but you and March both knew of Sunday’s sweet tooth, so you took the chance and held onto it, choosing last night to be the first time you ever applied it.

“I chose to wear it because of you.”

“Oh, I...”

As Sunday’s voice tapered off into a weak chuckle, his once stagnant wings began to happily flutter once, then twice, stirring up enough air to cause a soft breeze to ruffle through his hair, and in light of such a precious sight, you were certain that, quite coincidentally, the scent of strawberry-related products had magically nestled itself atop your favorites, too.

Sunday soon caught on to his external display of contentment, and he forced himself to still the appendages that dared to betray him.

You could hear him swallow. “Because of me?”

“Because of you.”

And it was with the reassurance of the validity of your confession, did Sunday’s hastily structured walls finally come crumbling down. Quickly, he pulled you closer against his form by wrapping his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.

It was hardly a surprise to either of you when a few moments later, his pair of raven wings—despite rarely ever revealing themselves—popped up near his torso, sprawling out as best as their restricted wingspan would allow them, before protectively curtaining their plumes around you like a midnight-colored blanket.

“By the stars, I...” Somehow, you could tell he was slightly irked by the way his voice caught in his throat. “I still don’t believe I truly deserve you, dear.”

You simply shook your head before shifting the self-deprecating Halovian ever closer against you, nudging him forth to rest the side of his face against the top of your chest.

“You deserve all that I can give you, and so much more.”

Sunday’s breath staggered in his throat at the contact, his reaction almost as comically startled as he was the first time you both so intimately cuddled.

The tranquility of the moment was nonetheless shattered by the sharp trill of the digital clock resting atop of Sunday’s nightstand.

6:45.

With a stifled, tired noise that sounded much akin to a groan, Sunday’s gaze shifted back and forth between the clock and your form a dozen or so times, before he used the weight of his palm to gently shut the alarm button off.

After a tremendously shaky sigh escaped his lips, reverberating throughout his body and rumbling against your chest, Sunday finally chose to truly, deeply , look up at you, golden eyes—nearly shyly, you noted—boring into yours, trembling with both pure disbelief that he has you, and utter adoration because he does.

“Do you truly believe that I could... get away with staying here for a little while?”

“I think after everything, you deserve a moment of rest.”

And maybe, for once, solely because it had rung forth from your lips, he would finally allow himself the chance to believe that he did.

[polkadotaspinall]

Gentle Giant

Tom Aspinall x reader!

warnings: size kink, protected sex, kissing , m!receiving oral.

summary: You and Tom have been dating for awhile but he's been too nervous to do anything with you.

hes kissing you gently hands brushing your thighs "Tom.." you whisper into his mouth- you and Tom have been together for 6 months but you guys haven't done anything together at all

and its almost frustrating to you- you know he wants you why would he date you? you know he does because hot make out sessions have him locking himself in your bathroom taking a cold shower at worst he's jerking it in there while you're there suffering.

he pulls away and gently strokes your thigh something he does often when he tries to signal the kissing wont go anywhere else you huff annoyed and cross your arms scooting away from him "darlin.." he gently grabs you by your hips and slowly pulls you closer his face in the crook of your neck warm breath on your neck

"why're you upset?" he asks voice soft "why wont we have sex?" you ask bluntly looking down at his arms. Toms a big man he's 6'5 and has nice muscles good meat on him. you love when he comes to visit after his gym workouts wearing shirts that hug him nicely. his arms are big- he's huge compared to you, which you loved because he was the stereotypical big strong boyfriend.

his breath hitches he pauses thinking, his hand drawing circles on your forearm "I'm just worried love- I want you" he pauses as your breath seems to get caught "I just don't know I'm worried that I'll hurt you" he murmurs into your neck he's so gentle with you always something you loved.

"hurt me?" you have a frown on your face now he kisses your neck and pulls you into his lap your back pressed against his strong chest. as you shift into his lap you feel him pressed against your ass you're feeling warm now " if you want to we can- I want you love so bad" he's kissing your neck hands roaming your body causing you to blank out for a moment

"Do you want me?" he asks almost unsure if you feel the same as if you werent the one who originally asked the question. "yes of course" and thats as he needed gently laying you on the couch and kissing you this kiss was so much different than all of the kisses you guys have. this one was hungry and full of desire he's pushing his tongue into your mouth exploring you. you cant hope but moan at this action causing his hands to start preying at your clothes.

his big hands pushing your top up, you often don't wear bras at home so as Tom pulls away from the kiss he looks at your breasts his mouth hangs open big hands groping at your breasts he looks at you and smiles "I'm not bein' too rough am I?" he asks gently as he kisses your forehead you smile "you're so worried" you feel him smile on your forehead "I'm allowed to be" he says slight pause " I'm just so much bigger than you"

he takes his shirt off which makes you wiggle out of your top as well you cant help but to take in his tattoos all over his body- you loved them and you rarely got to see them. which you hated if you were lucky he'd be shirtless in your house. but he'd often keep it on as he noticed you'd be on him more you drag your hand along his chest and down his abs to his waistband you smile shyly at him as you gently tug on it he smiles and pulls his sweats off

left in his brief you notice his large hard print through his briefs. you couldn't help but to almost drool at the sight, toms so shy in the way he acts its so surprising to you. his face is a little pink as you crawl toward him you get off your sofa and on your knees in front of him you can see the pink spread to his chest the tips of his ears being redder at the sight of you in front of him.

you tug at his briefs which he pulls off hes huge. no wonder he didn't want to have sex with you he's easily 8 inches, and he's thick how unbelievable this sight is. your mouth waters at the idea of trying to take him in your mouth his tip red and leaking with a large bead of pre cum you take off your bottoms to be fully naked. you take him in your hand he's so big you could barely wrap your hand around it you lick the bead of pre-cum off of his cock and he cant help but to moan his hand coming up to his face covering his mouth he sounds so pretty.

"f'me what a view" he says almost breathless you lick a stripe up his cock causing him to shudder as you try to take him into your mouth- you try to force him down your throat but you couldn't, toms a moaning mess under you his hands holding your hair up for you being so gentle his hips slightly bucking up and he apologizes "I'm sorry" you moan around his cock at the bucking. you try to take him farther gagging around him which causes tom to throw his head back "such a good girl tryin to take all of me" he mumbles his head looking down at you he gently pulls you up "no more love- I dont want to cum before I get to please you" your face is pink now

tom finds himself back on top of you kissing you as you wrap your legs around his waist his cock already poking at your pussy- you're soaking wet. Tom quickly threw a rubber on before this in fear he'd knock you up if he didnt. toms hips gently moving his tip up and down your slit causing you to moan in his mouth he smiles pulling away your holding onto his arms as he pokes your entrance "let me know if its too much okay?" his eyes full of concern as you nod biting your lip as he pushes in and holy fuck the stretch caused your back to arch moans leaving your mouth "oh my god- so fucking big" you gasp out you look at Tom your hand squeezing at his bicep he's pink as he slowly pushes in more "you're so much smaller than me" he mumbles as he realizes not all of him can fit "so full" you whimper out his hands holding your hips the stretch is painful but so good.

tom gives you a moment to adjust to his size you roll your hips causing a Tom to moan "so eager huh" he teases as he leans over you slowly pull out before he snaps his hips back your back arching "fuck me Tom" and that's all he needed before he lost control. his gentle worried strokes turn into animalistic rough thrusts as you moan out beneath him "s-so big too much" you moan out as you feel him somehow fitting more of his length into you he puts your legs on his shoulder and you cant even fathom the reach he has at this angle. his large cock has already been bullying your sweet spot and cervix but now you can swear you feel him in your stomach his hand is on your stomach a small grin on his face as he moves it

"look darlin" you motions to your stomach you see a bump oh my god he's that big. your gripping onto Tom so tight as he fucks you into your sofa you're seeing stars Tom can feel you tightening "you gonna cum love? f'me cum on my cock sweet" he groans as you do exactly that "oh Tom" is all you can say as your vision gets spotty so overwhelmed by his size and the pleasure he's giving, you feel toms breath getting quicker and him going deeper and harder he's close you can feel him twitching in the condom "I'm gonna cum fuck you're so tight doll" he groans as he practically folds you- your knees hitting your chest his entire cock burried in your sore cunt you can feel the warmth and almost thank Tom for being patient enough to throw on a condom. he definitely would've knocked you up. he gently pulls out leaving you to feel so empty you whimper at this he pulls you up and into his arms "you okay?" he asks gently stroking your hair and kissing you you nod as you nuzzle into his chest "perfect" you say as you catch your breath.

[authors note: finally writing about Tom #ilovetomsobad hope you guys feel the same, thanks anon for asking me about him!!! I've honestly been writing more about fighters I've been thinking about sorry </3 If you want more specific ppl just request or lmk!! <33]

[coldstoicism]

Their first encounter... Bi-Han remembers it vividly, even though decades had passed since. They had been young men back then, each with a reputation to preceed him and the blood of countless of nameless people on their hands. One, a merciless assassin, deadly and revered by his fellow clan members, the other a no less deadly ninja, belonging to a clan of traitors in the eyes of the Lin Kuei. They knew they were meant to hate each other, to fight to the death before they even knew each other's names.

To this day, Bi-Han still hates them. The Shirai Ryu are vermin, thieves, deluding themselves to be honorable when their clan is built on the secrets stolen from the Lin Kuei. Having been bested by one still weighs heavily on his pride.

Satisfied, Noob Saibot watches the other tense up as he approaches. Good. Scorpion would be well adviced to fear him, even if he choses to remain peaceful for the time being.

The other's mistrust is all too obvious as he holds out the cure to him, generously allowing him to simply take it, offering to save his life after he had so nearly ended it. Of course, it doesn't surprise him that Scorpion expects some ulterior motive behind it. Their eyes meet as the other looks up, but the wraith does not withdraw his hand.

When Hanzo finally reaches for the vial, Noob Saibot merely watches him take it out of his open palm, making no attempt to stop the other or change his mind at the last second. As expected, he is shown no gratitude.

❝ This cure has been preserved for a long time... I cannot speak on its potency. ❝

Watching Scorpion drink the antidote, he figures he should at least let the other know this much. He had not taken it from a particularly trustworthy source after all.

More insults, more goading, he expects as much but it does not stop it from being petty and grating, a constant show of the disrespect between them from the very moment they had laid eyes upon each other. Hanzo does not grace it with a response.

He, the prideful Shirai Ryu, the other, a cold blooded snake from the Lin Kuei.

Hanzo does not stir from his position, knelt on the floor, even as the other approaches him - but it is easy to notice the tension in his frame as they are met face to face, clearly bracing against whatever may come… only to be met with na extended palm, a familiar looking glass vial. One of a vast collection, the handwriting on it unmistakable, there was no doubt that whatever it might contain to be true.

An antidote. Quan Chi had always been one to collect oddities.

Suspicion fills his gaze, and his eyes flick from the vial offered to the wraith that offers it to him. If it is what it is, he would be cured of the draining feeling that lingers in his limbs, a constant sapping of his strength by what remains of poison in his system. It would give him more strength to resist, fight back, perhaps even escape should the other be distracted for long enough.

Silently, resolution sets in his expression as he reaches to take what is offered, no thanks offered. He wishes to live, if given the choice.

[kingofattolia]

Quinlan and Aayla are the original Anakin and Ahsoka. Quinlan being Obi-Wan's age, and Aayla being seven years older than Anakin, Quinlan is only NINE years older than her. Legends Wookieepedia says he took her as his padawan when she was 10, which is patently ridiculous. Even if we age her up to a more new-canon-consistent age, that still gives us 23yo Quinlan and his 14yo padawan. Disaster duo. Terrifying gremlin pair.

[gifti3]

the goverment is definitely figuring out this alien situation asap right?? cause whats happening currently is not feasible in the long run is it not??

im sure they are trying to maybe figure it out...probably, but part of me feels like it is not being treated with the seriousness it should be by them, which ig is in character LOL

pretty much relying on one guy (who doesnt even wanna be doing this) is actually scary

and the mc still has to like 'encourage' him to do it, tho its much easier in the 'ray ending' for sure. that man just wants to live a regular life with mc (unfortunately for him that means continuing to be binary star and dealing with aliens)

and if i was a citizen and knew this id be panicking

like yea u have these other heroes helping and stuff which im sure looks comforting from an outside point of view! but like the actuality is that its ray keeping things afloat

AND ON THE TOPIC OF THE MC, i was definitely in my head like....wouldnt rays superiors (managers??) get like curious about them? like no way theyre not being nosy about it after a certain amount of time passes. it really feels like something that could be leveraged against him,,, (if there is fic about this pls send it to me lol)

honestly i feel like mc and rays relationship would have moments of high stress. like there will be good times but also the bad times will also be there and its sometimes gonna be because of outside factors they cant control

[yanderethorne]

käärijä returning to esc after last year’s absolute shitshow is choice. i’ll say that. extremely choice.

[teaandcheckmates]

Percy, having half-turned toward the drinks cabinet and half-fumbled with the idea of pouring tea, glances back when Luca whistles—and very nearly drops the crystal stopper to the decanter.

He catches it. Barely. With both hands. The tips of his ears flush pink.

“I—ah—well,” he stammers, managing a quick, strangled sort of smile as if he might absorb the compliment and simultaneously fold himself out of existence. “One does try…”

He trails off when Luca begins to settle in. There’s a moment—just one brief flicker—where Percy looks like he’s watching a painting be hung in the perfect spot. It isn’t anything grand or overt, just the way his expression smooths, shoulders slacken, and his eyes follow the way Luca moves through the room as if it were already his.

He looks like he belongs here, Percy thinks.

Which, of course, terrifies him.

Because nothing Percy ever cared for was allowed to belong for long.

He busies his hands before the thought can root itself—unstoppering the bottle, selecting two small cut-glass tumblers with just enough care to hide the fact that his fingers are shaking a little. Not because of nerves, precisely, but because Luca had just sat in his favorite chair and the room didn’t feel stolen for once. It felt full.

He pours.

Just enough to warm. Not enough to slur. (Or is it...)

As he moves back toward Luca, glasses in hand, he catches the edge of that story—“endless hours spent dancing or standing in a corner”—and the irony strikes him almost gently. It always surprised him, how alike they were in the wrong settings.

Both of them sharp-tongued and good-postured, and yet entirely useless when surrounded by the wrong crowd. People often mistook that for aloofness. In Percy’s case, they weren’t entirely wrong.

He offers the glass with a faint smile.

“You’ll find no cologne-soaked critics here,” he murmurs. “And I promise not to ask your opinion on classical music unless prompted.”

He allows himself to sit—not directly across from Luca, but beside him at a safe, respectful angle, close enough that their knees could almost touch, but don’t. He doesn’t drink right away. He just… looks.

The light from the window has softened. It casts long, delicate strokes across Luca’s cheekbones, and Percy finds his voice caught just behind the rim of his thoughts.

He should be painted like this. That, or catalogued carefully in one of those L’Art Moderne features—“An Unexpected Guest,” perhaps. Or “Man Reclining in a Room Too Grand to Be His Own.” Except it is his. Or it could be.

He blinks down at Smokey instead.

The cat, having nested atop the heap of Luca’s discarded coat with the air of a king in repose, gives him a look that says “You are still here?”

Percy lifts his glass toward him.

“To your health, monsieur Smokey,” he says wryly. “May your reign be long. And preferably quiet.”

Then, a little softer, to Luca—

“You deserve a reward more often. For being kind. For laughing like that. For… visiting.”

He takes a sip. Smooth. Gentle burn. Something sweet tucked underneath it.

And then, abruptly, as if trying to beat sentiment at its own game:

“Did you really get mistaken for staff at your own debut? That’s not a story I’m imagining, is it?” He quirks an eyebrow, glass resting lightly in his lap. “Or have I dreamt that up in some wine-drenched vision of justice?” (He never drinks wine.)

Bonsoiiiir! ♪

[Luca busted out right in front of Percival's doors when he least expected it, because why the hell not. His voice had been awfully joyful all morning, clearly, ranting to his father about "how much he's looking forward to his special visit".]

[Who could blame him? It is not every day that you get to bring around your new pet cat to your significant other and pleasantly surprise them with it!]

“Désolé, you said at my earliest convenience -I simply couldn't hold myself!” [The man spoke cheerfully, clasping his two palms together while his smile had almost caused him a cheek-ache on the way here.]

[After Percy allowed him to come forth, he gave him a tight, warm embrace. Completely forgetting the fact that the "surprise" in question was now suffocating between them.] -Meow!- [Smokey exclaimed.]

“Ah!” [His body immediately retreated backwards.] -Ahem- “I suppose it cannot wait any longer.. behold! The surprise that I mentioned in my letters! The newest addition to the Fauntleroy estate! Smokey!”

[Luca began to proudly show him off, picking him up out of his suit as if he was a magician pulling out a well-hidden dove.]

@way2rich4this

Percy startles so hard he nearly drops the book in his lap.

It had been a quiet morning—or at least, it had been until the unmistakable burst of “Bonsoiiiir!” ricocheted down the corridor like a cannonball made entirely of vowels and affection. The force of it makes his heart skip several highly concerning beats, and he turns toward the door with the sort of expression usually reserved for tax audits and lightning strikes.

And then he hears the voice.

Luca.

His posture unspools instantly—shoulders relaxing, breath easing, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. There’s an instinctive kind of warmth that floods his chest when Luca’s around, like stepping into sunlight after being buried in frost. Even if he is entering like an operatic thunderstorm.

Percy rises—awkwardly, stiffly, smoothing the front of his vest and blinking with a mixture of confusion and anticipation.

“I—ah, I wasn’t expecting—well, I suppose I was, but not quite this early—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before Luca is on him, arms winding around his frame in a hug that knocks the air straight from his lungs in a soundless little gasp. It takes him a second to register the warmth, the affection, the familiarity of it—so full, so solid—and he melts into it instinctively, breath catching faintly as he leans his forehead against Luca’s shoulder with a shaky exhale.

And then—

“Meow!”

There is something squirming between them.

Percy blinks, then flinches, arms awkwardly lifting as if trying not to crush a very delicate loaf of bread.

“Is that—?”

But Luca’s already pulling back, bright-eyed and glowing with pride. Percy blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing—first the suit, then the limbs emerging from the suit, then—

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes widening, “Oh.”

Because there, in Luca’s hands, nestled like an irritable puff of charcoal and aristocratic indignation, is a cat. A very fluffy, very unimpressed-looking cat.

Percy stares.

Smokey stares back.

Silence.

“…He was in your jacket?” Percy asks faintly, voice several decibels softer than usual, the words half-lost to stunned awe. He inches forward, reverent. “You… you carried a cat in your—”

He breaks off with a strangled little sound that might be laughter. Or tears. Or possibly a blend of both. His hands lift and hover mid-air, unsure where to go—is it rude to pet someone else's cat? What if the cat bites? What if Luca bites??

“He’s gorgeous,” Percy finally manages, voice trembling somewhere between delight and disbelief. “Look at him—look at his little face, he’s like a very cross cloud—oh, Gods, does he like me? Is he going to—?”

He cuts himself off again when Smokey shifts slightly, giving a skeptical little flick of his tail. Percy freezes.

And then, ever so gently, he holds out a single, tentative finger.

“…Hello,” he murmurs, as if addressing royalty. “I, ah—I’m Percy. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. I am told we may be cohabitating occasionally. I do hope that’s acceptable to you.”

[thedrotter]

i depend on you (based and very much inspired by @/sometimes317 's piece on twitter)

process pics in read more!!^^

you can tell the moment it struck me that i was practically drawing ship art www

[spear-carrier-number-three]

the rampant kant hate in this fandom isn't surprising but it is exasperating.

[thedocxlevi]

"I guess then it sounds like a date. I will help you understand the The loop of Henle and you teach me all about rock composition. I might actually pay attention since its coming from you more than I did when I was in school," he replied with a smirk on his face before a chuckle escaped his lips. All this was a new experience to the doctor, this feeling was new and one that he never expected, it went against his logic mind and some believes that he had been holding on to for so long but right now his logical mind was distracted by the other's words, their touch, their sound and their lips on his skin.

Levi did allowed the other to keep kissing him, letting go and giving in. His body in a way giving the male premission to keep on going and going not to stop but Hal finally did stop. "Is that so, I normally stay away from trouble but, I will not mind trouble if it means I get to keep kissing those sweet lips of yours," his voice deep, seductive and sweet and also charming. Levi unsure if he was aware of how his voice has changed. Levi chuckled at the male's question, shaking his head before Hal gave him a chance to answer they had already taken his hand and lead him towards the other.

"You are full of surprises," he winked with a massive smile on his face and he did not mind his clothes were going to get wet. Luckily his phone was not in his pockets.

Halil hated the idea of FATE — was there a point to life if everything was pre-determined? If choice, intuition, and free-will were all just the tools in the belt of a higher power? And what would the purpose of a higher power be if those it birthed into its reality were only meant to suffer and die? Did that mean that hungry children were fated to starve? Were crime victims fated to have their lives stripped from them by another person? Had it not been written in Paige's fate to carry a child of their making? More importantly, what determined a soul's worthiness? Why would FATE make people like him wealthy while his neighbours, two houses over, weren't? Why did some people die before finding love while he'd always held an abundance of it in his hands? In other words, if fate existed, why did suffering exist too? Halil hums, "I can teach you about the historical importance of rock composition, if you help me understand how The loop of Henle works." CONTROL wasn't his strong suit. His relatively reserved nature was merely an inherited trait, passed down to him by his father and years of gang affiliation. His truth was much different. Halil had been a soft boy; sensitive; empathetic; easily over-powered and over-looked — but he was energetic, impulsive, and lived purely off of that tiny inkling of resonance in his gut. It got him into trouble, locked him into specific labels at different times, and meant moments like this one came about more often than he'd liked to admit. Away from the tough, heartless gangster he had to be to keep himself and The Cartel afloat, these moments provided him with the chance to simply be HIMSELF again. A novelty that he didn't think would be one when he started. And so, upon Levi's admission, with his hands still running through his hair and his energy so close, Halil leans into it a little bit, PRESENCE, running his fingers along the line of Levi's jaw and kissing him until breath is foreign and somehow, he ends up hovering over him, kissing him into the cooling sand. "Be careful, doc," The professor whispers against his jugular, the rapid pace of his heart beating there making a shiver roll down his spine. "— spending hours kissing me might get us into trouble." And although he continues to trail his mouth of the other's neck and shoulder, right there in the sand, he's observing him; for any retreat or withdrawn consent; how his chest moves to accommodate the rise of his blood pressure.

"But we could. I don't mind getting into trouble." For a moment, Halil wonders if he should lead him somewhere private, to really soak in the moment of being this close to him and having his consent, but when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket again, too many times to ignore, reality settles into his stomach instead of desire and he sits back on his knees. His answer to the text is quick before a mischievous grin curls on his lips and a question hits the air. "Can you swim?" Knowing the answer already, Halil doesn't wait for the doctor to speak, instead, he takes hold of his hand and gently tugs him from the ground and toward the water. For some reason, right now, all he wished for was to make him smile the pretty smile that he'd only seen glimpses of - everything else be damned.

[senseiwu]

Just saw a video where someone mentioned reading the curious incident of the dog in the night time, and they thought afterwards they may have autism too. When they brought it up to their mum, she was like "you knew??" cause apparently she'd done that thing people seem to do where they keep an autism diagnosis secret from their kids

It made me remember when my grandma gave me that book to read when we were all at her place for Christmas. She said something like "I think you'll really like it", which confused me cause I was more into fantasy stuff than mystery novels. I mean. I did really like it. But it's one of the things that makes me wonder... did my parents do that thing too...?

[violentlydefending]

genuinely always so shocked to see mirei hate. like literally god forbid women do anything.