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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year
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A little thing based on this post because it wouldn’t leave my brain:
“I just don’t understand why you won’t try to read it.”
Steve had heard Dustin say this exact sentence hundreds of times at this point.
“I mean, do you know how to read?”
Mike was an asshole. Steve loved him because he was part of the group and he’d been through the same things, but he was such a dick.
“Yes, I know how to read. I just don’t.”
Dustin rolled his eyes.
“If you don’t wanna read nerd shit just say so.”
Steve threw his arms up in frustration.
Steve was a nerd at heart. As a child, he would beg the nanny to take him to the library and the science museum that had real dinosaur fossils. There was something about the peace of exiting his reality and finding a new one among fantasy and history that was indescribable, even to this day.
But as he grew into his looks, he grew out of that phase. At least around others.
And with no nanny around to take him places, he settled for just being the popular guy who hung out with his friends after practice and threw parties at his forever empty house on Saturdays.
But secretly, he still found himself enjoying books late into the night. Never school books, or his grades would’ve been good enough for college, but always incredible novels that took him to other worlds with the most impressively brave people.
And then he lived a nightmare. A few times over. With concussions at every turn.
Now, anytime he tried to read, his head started pounding, his vision got blurry, and ears would start ringing. He stopped trying altogether after Starcourt, but he’d never really let go his love of books.
He occasionally let Robin read to him, but she would get distracted by a plot or character and go on a tangent, leaving Steve confused about what the actual story was. He hated being confused.
“Stevie, you got a minute?”
Eddie had been watching from his spot at the end of the table, where he’d been cleaning up the mess of D&D. He usually made the kids do it, but he’d let them off the hook tonight when they beat the monster and escaped his trap.
Steve and Eddie were friends, definitely. Maybe not close ones, but friends.
Steve had a little crush, definitely. Or a big one. Maybe.
So when Eddie shows him attention, he somewhat shamefully receives it like he’s dying of thirst in a desert.
Robin is the only one who’s noticed so far, but if he keeps acting like a dog being called by his master anytime Eddie talks to him, someone else will comment on it.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Steve asked as he made his way to Eddie.
The kids took this time to talk amongst themselves about the game and what they think will happen next week, and Steve couldn’t have been more grateful.
“You don’t have to tell me, but.” Eddie was tapping his fingers nervously against his leg. “Do you not know how to read?”
“Uh. No I do. I mean I graduated high school. I know it’s hard to believe.”
“Not judging if you can’t, man. I mean, I took three senior years. I’m the last person who can judge.”
“Yeah, but you’re smart. You just didn’t like school,” Steve replied with a pat to his shoulder.
Eddie glanced down at the contact, eyebrow raising and then falling back to normal quickly.
“Just seems like you’d have read something by now to get them off your ass.”
And that’s a really good point. Maybe he should’ve just suffered through a migraine so they’d leave him alone about it.
But migraines left him out for days sometimes, and he couldn’t exactly afford that right now.
“I guess it’s just not worth the migraine.”
He hadn’t meant to actually say it. He didn’t want Eddie to feel bad or for him to try to make him feel better about it or ask questions or talk about the concussion thing.
Actually, did he even know about the concussion thing? Things?
“You get migraines when you try to read?” Then realization hit Eddie hard. “Steve. Do you like reading?”
Something about the way Eddie was looking at him, like he was sad for him but not pitying him, made Steve want to cry.
“I used to, yeah.”
“Everyone out! Your parents are gonna have to come get you! No questions, no explanations, go!” Eddie yelled to the room.
Everyone stared blankly at him before they started protesting, Dustin loudest of all.
“Steve’s my ride!”
“Not anymore. Hitch a ride with Lucas.”
“But Lucas’ mom always squeezes my cheeks and tells me she hopes I never lose my baby fat.”
“She speaks for all of us. Get the hell out of here!”
Steve was actually impressed. Maybe a little turned on? God, he was a disaster.
As everyone cleared out of the room, Eddie patted the seat next to him. When Steve sat down, Eddie scooted his chair so close to him, his knees were touching Steve’s.
“Alright, so you’re gonna tell me about what books you like and what books you want to read and we’re gonna get started.”
Steve blinked at him. “Huh?”
“You have a list I’m sure.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Okay, then we better get started.”
“I mean, I’ve tried. I appreciate it, but even focusing on one page makes my eyes burn and my head hurt.”
“Got that. I’m not asking you to read.”
Sometimes Steve was worried the concussions had actually knocked some screws loose. He wasn’t getting it.
“I’m gonna read to you, Stevie.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure a lot of them will be movies and I can just watch them.”
“It’s not the same. You know it’s not.”
He was right. Steve didn’t have much patience for movies. And sometimes even those gave him migraines if there were a lot of bright lights and explosions.
“Yeah. But still. You don’t have to do that. You might not even like the books.”
“Ah, this isn’t a completely free service, my liege.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “I don’t have extra money to pay you, dude.”
“Not money. I get to pick a book to read to you when we finish the first book you pick.”
“Is it The Hobbit?”
“It is,” Eddie looked so smug.
“Well, that was my first choice,” Steve stared back, equally as smug.
“So, your house is empty.”
“Yep.”
“And I’m assuming you own this book.”
“I do.”
“And it’s getting late.”
Steve looked out the window at the pitch black skies.
“It’s late.”
“So I could stay and read you to sleep.”
“Won’t I miss some of the book?”
“I’ll stop when you’re asleep.”
Steve’s heart was practically begging him to say yes. Eddie reading to him in his bed? Possibly falling asleep together? Maybe even waking up together? It couldn’t be a better proposition. Well. It could.
“Will you stay even if I fall asleep?”
Eddie smirked. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d called Steve that, but it was the first time it felt like he meant it in a non-teasing way.
“Okay.”
So they both changed into some of Steve’s comfy clothes, got into his bed, and Eddie started reading The Hobbit.
Just as he was during D&D and real life, Eddie was animated, providing different voices for different characters and often giving long pauses to let Steve soak in what the words meant.
Steve didn’t even have to ask him to do that. He just did.
Steve fell asleep somewhere between halfway and the end of chapter two, but Eddie stayed.
And they woke up the next day with Steve’s head resting on Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s arms wrapped around him to keep him as close as possible.
They finished the The Hobbit in a week, and because Eddie was now committed to making sure Steve was well-read, they started moving through his list rapidly, falling for each other in new ways every time Eddie turned a page.
Part 2 (Angst)  / Part 2 (Fluffy) /  Part 2 (Explicit)
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daedalusdavinci · 1 month
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24. superbat. this motherfucker JUST got to bed if any of u assholes wake him UP
24. Protecting your lover’s sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you. thinking about.... jlas superbat. i may not have followed this prompt to the letter but its very long so you get what you get at this point
It was just one of those days- one of those nights- one of those weeks- where one problem shifted right into the next without break, and they all found themselves running more ragged than usual. In the tower, heroes everywhere seemed sluggish and exhausted, running low on sleep and worn out from the last battle. Diana had tipped onto a couch and hadn't gotten back up again, and Wally had nearly passed out in the cafeteria, starting awake and drifting off again in the middle of a burger. After being pried away from the monitors, J'onn had gone straight to his room to sleep, and there were countless others who had followed his example.
Bruce was too stubborn. Clark was reasonably sure he'd been awake longer than anyone, but Clark could still see him typing away, doing god even knew what.
"I'll sleep when I finish," he said, before Clark had even said anything.
"I wasn't going to tell you to sleep," Clark said, taking that as his cue to approach.
"Yes, you were."
"I know better." Clark set a hand on the back of Bruce's chair, glancing briefly over the monitors. Logs, security feed, news reports- all of it a huge mess of information to sort through. Someone had to do it, but that someone didn't need to be Bruce.
Bruce looked tired. His shoulders sagged and his fingers hesitated, slow on the keys. He'd been drooping all day, attacking everything with the energy of a man on his very last leg. He'd sustained too many injuries during the fight. He'd been slow, and sloppy. He needed to sleep, but he'd never let Clark talk him into it if Clark let on that that was what he was doing.
"Can you do all this from anywhere?" Clark asked.
Bruce blinked slowly. "Not from anywhere."
"But from another computer."
"Yes. I have others."
"A laptop?"
"Yes." Bruce was eyeing him with suspicion, now, leaning back in his chair.
"Then you're doing it from there," Clark decided. "You can burn your retinas to your heart's content- I won't stop you. But I need company."
For a long moment, Bruce looked at him. Clark could practically hear the gears turning as he thought it over, taking longer to consider it than he usually would in his exhaustion. Then, finally, his gaze softened. He sighed, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. "Just don't watch one of your stupid cooking shows while I work."
"They're not stupid," Clark protested.
"Whatever." Bruce waved a hand, pushing himself up out of the chair. He hit a few more buttons, and the monitors condensed into the smallest screen, allowing Bruce to pull it off of its docking station. "Lead the way."
The tower had grown quiet and still with sleeping heroes. With his hearing, Clark could hear Booster and Ted's laughter from the cafeteria, but everywhere else had turned muffled and heavy with the air of sleep. People murmured back and forth to avoid waking up sleeping heroes in the commons, and most of the sleeping quarters were occupied. Somewhere, Wally got ready to portal home, while somewhere else, Oliver snored loudly. No one passed them on their way to Clark's room.
It was easy to get stuck on the fringes of his senses, listening to everything instead of whatever was closest. The need to keep an ear out for danger hadn't quite abided yet, and it left Clark feeling unmoored and anxious. Normally, it was a nuisance, but maybe this time it'd keep him awake long enough that Bruce would sleep first.
It was almost too easy to pile on his couch with Bruce. Normally, any attempt at getting Bruce to accept even a mediocrum of comfort resulted in a fight, but he sat without prompting, eyes never leaving his tablet. He didn't complain when Clark flopped down with a heap of blankets, even when Clark twisted to lean against the arm, swinging his legs across Bruce's lap. Somehow, they settled in like that; Bruce, on his tablet, and Clark, half-watching some nature show that was interesting enough, but not so interesting that it offended Bruce's sensibilities.
As the narrator droned on, Clark struggled to narrow in his focus. The lights from the TV flickered colors across the dark room, and it felt so quiet, surrounded by the suffocating vacuum of space. If he strained hard enough, he knew he could hear Earth, but he tried not to. He could feel each individual fiber of each blanket, and each snore in the building. The tap of Bruce's finger against the screen of his tablet felt obscenely loud. The constant shifting of his attention and the overwhelming amount of stimulus was exhausting, and he could feel himself sagging under it, so worn out that it was hard to hear the words coming from the TV. He rubbed his face, running through grounding exercises in his head to no avail. He wasn't sleeping, at least.
Bruce's hand came to rest on his knee. The pressure of it was enough to shock Clark out of his thoughts, but light, and gentle. Bruce hadn't looked up from his tablet, but his thumb tracked back and forth absently.
Slowly, Clark relaxed back into the couch again. His eyes fixed on the TV, but without really registering the pictures. He couldn't feel every fiber in the blankets, or hear every snore, but he was suddenly hyper-aware of that weight on his knee- a single point of focus that he locked on helplessly. It wasn't constant- every now and again, Bruce lifted his hand to tap the screen- but it always returned. Somehow, that caught Clark's attention more, leaving him waiting, expectant, caught on every detail of Bruce. The bracing warmth of Bruce's legs under his own, the vaguely ticklish stroke of his thumb, his breathing, steady and slow. Out of habit more than anything, he found Bruce's heartbeat, listening to the low thump of it until it felt like his own had slowed in turn. The familiarity of it was soothing, safe, protected, the reliability of the Batman unexpectedly grounding after so long.
His head slipped off his hand, and he started, eyes opening. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.
"Seems like I'm not the only one trying to stay up," Bruce commented.
"I'm not," Clark said. Although, maybe he was. He frowned through the haze of exhaustion, trying to focus on the TV.
"The life and death of a sea star are just that riveting," Bruce said, teasing under the deadpan.
"Shut up," Clark muttered, and shifted again, re-propping up his elbow on the arm of the couch.
It was difficult to understand how Bruce stayed awake. Without the cowl, the bags under his eyes were dark and deep, his expression something beyond exhausted. And yet, even now, wrapped up in blankets and secluded in the quiet comfort of Clark's room, listening to the soothing drone of a documentary, he tapped at that stupid tablet. Clark was beginning to doubt his ability to outlast him. The restless discomfort that had kept him awake earlier- his ace in the hole against Bruce's stubbornness- was fading into a sleepy warmth all too quickly.
And then, Bruce started to hum.
Clark could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he'd heard Bruce sing. Diana had once told him that Bruce had a voice so beautiful it could make a villain weep, but Clark had only ever heard it rarely, and never meant for him. It was a quiet lullaby, murmured to a baby that wouldn't stop crying as Clark searched for the mother, or a hum, pressed against Robin's hair in the aftermath of fear toxin. It had always felt like something he wasn't meant to hear. Now, through the ridiculous fog of exhaustion, Clark thought of sirens, calling soothingly to sailors from a distance.
Bruce's humming was soft and low, just under his breath. The tune was impossible to place, but haunting, and mournful. The sound of it seemed to vibrate through Clark, blanketing his senses until all he could focus on was just Bruce. Bruce was warm. He was safe, and close, and so confusingly present, as reliable as the tide. Time seemed to turn fluid, listening to that soft song, and Clark's eyes closed without his permission, just listening.
When Clark next opened his eyes, it was dark. The TV was off, Bruce's tablet forgotten somewhere in the tangle of blankets. His neck should've ached from the arm of the couch, but his head was on the cushions, propped up by a pillow. How Bruce had pulled that off without waking him, he had no idea.
Bruce was a warm weight against his chest, breathing slow. Judging by the awkward positioning, Clark doubted he'd meant to fall asleep, knees still jammed under Clark's own and cape still on. One of his hands was tucked against Clark's side, his face hidden between his own shoulder and Clark's sternum. It was... sweet, really. To have Bruce feel comfortable enough to sleep was a unique privilege, and one rarely afforded.
Clark hadn't outlasted him, in the end. But Bruce was sleeping, and as Clark let his eyes drift shut again, he allowed himself to consider it a win.
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I just have the urge to see Porsche coaxing Pete from Vegas's side, those first few numb, liquid hours in the hospital while Vegas is stabilized. Peeling him out of his blood-soaked uniform, limbs as limp and heavy as a doll, and ushering him into a warm shower. Standing with him under the spray, washing the blood from Pete's hair, from under his fingernails. Holding him as the tears come. Dressing him in clothes Arm or Pol has brought from the compound, from the room Pete will never share with Porsche again. Returning Pete to Vegas's room where, outside the door, a pale Macau is wrapped up in, surprisingly or not, Tankhun's arms. Tankhun takes one look at Pete, and pulls him in too.
Big brothers Tankhun and Porsche looking after Pete, who has shouldered so much on his own, and Macau, who is just a child thrust so suddenly into the horrible truth of his family's world.
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hobbyistauthor · 5 months
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A Heavy Interlude
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The rain patters loudly against the window panes of the tiny apartment, falling from the sky with fervor in sheets thick enough to obscure vision. The skies are dark with clouds, heavy and looming where they hover ominously on the horizon. The scents of petrichor and ozone have hung heavy in the air all day, lurking like a jump scare one knows is coming but cannot avoid. It has left everything feeling tense and on edge—unpleasant and lingering, not unlike the scent of musty old cigarette smoke clinging to one’s clothing no matter how many times it runs through the wash. It’s blessedly dry and warm inside the small apartment, but the mess revealed within is beginning to accumulate to a level that blatantly inhibits basic functions, haven risen undoubtedly to the level of a den of distracted depression. It’s a painfully accurate reflection of the sole occupant’s state of mind—said occupant is currently sinking further into the cushions on the old couch as though attempting to assimilate with the half-disintegrating fibers.
It’s been three days since the last showdown with Villain. It had been a big one, huge and dramatic, rife with bloody noses, shouting and snarls, gritted teeth and blackened eyes. Villain always has these grandiose plans, masterfully orchestrated with them at the helm like the most elegant of conductors. Quite frankly, a part of the Hero is always impressed by the sheer number of layers and overarching complexity of each of these schemes—the contingencies stacked high, accounting for nearly every potential hiccup. Villain’s mind is a gorgeous thing, deadly in its own right. They’d battled it out, neck and neck for nearly eighteen hours, a cat-and-mouse game where the Hero fought to dismantle the intricate web Villain had weaved, culminating in a fight that Hero had barely squeaked out a win in, (and suspects that Villain had let them win even now) breathless and shamefully awed by the indomitable adversary. The bruises still haven’t faded where they stain knuckles purple and yellow, painful with the right pressure. The Authorities were concerned by the Hero’s apathy in the aftermath and had assigned mandatory leave. No complaints were lodged, which only served to assure Them that something was wrong. They aren’t, per se. Just not in the way They assume.
There’s been no word. 
Villain vanished into the aether—bloody, ferocious, and beautiful in their defiance even in the face of such defeat. Since the start of covert parleys that fill the Hero with far more joy and warmth than is probably acceptable by societal standards, Villain has consistently gotten word to the Hero that they’re safe and recovering after the encounters and within twenty four hours of the retreat, but this time, there’s been nothing but radio silence. Bandaged fingers clench into the soft fabric of the jogger sweatpants covering thick, muscular thighs as the Hero inhales sharply. This is uncharted territory. Feeling like this is absolutely ridiculous, and completely unacceptable.
According to The Authorities, it’s a Hero’s Duty to worry about those they’ve sworn to protect, but... Heroes aren’t supposed to worry about the Villains they fight, the criminals they catch… the adversaries they put down. And yet, the Hero sits here, filled to the brim with fear for someone society would condemn a Hero in a heartbeat for caring for. A Hero, concerned about—fearing for—a Villain? Unheard of; a joke that’s so tragic no one would even laugh about it. Blood spills across taste buds as white teeth split open chapped, worried lips after the many hours of anxious biting finally have worn through the tender, sensitive flesh.
A mug of tea sits on a cork coaster atop the coffee table, long gone cold. The Hero stares blankly at the visage reflected back in the black, blank screen of the TV mounted on the wall across from the couch. Dark purple bruises circle dead eyes, sallow cheeks and a barren expression close companions on the pallid face that stares back. It’s a fitting look, the Hero thinks absently, for someone so pathetic and weak. It’s a blatant reminder of how deeply getting to know the Villain as more than just an adversary—humanizing the nemesis—has irrevocably changed the Hero, and the jury is still out on whether or not that shift in perception is for the better or worse.
Unfolding slowly from the couch, sore muscles screaming with the effort, the Hero stands vacantly in the living room like a shell of a robot, idling vacantly until the upload commands are received. Loosely-limbed and exhausted on emotional, mental, and physical levels, the Hero exhales slowly in a rattling sigh, blinking dull green eyes sluggishly, bruised lids heavy with fatigue.
A quiet knock against the glass breaks the muted silence of the apartment, echoing in the space alongside the white noise of the rain.
It startles the Hero, empty green eyes sparking to life. Immediately shooting towards the large window where the sound originated from, bruised and bandaged hands cling to the sill, shaking with the surge of adrenaline. Squinting into the darkness cast by the stormy atmosphere, the Hero presses bandaged fingers against the pane, only seeing the water-blurred yellow headlights of cars driving by in the distance. About to give up, having imagined it all, a large shape moves in the shadows against the wall of the apartment building. Gaze snapping in that direction, the Hero catches a flicker of violet flashing through the darkness briefly before it vanishes into the blackness.
Heart racing, the Hero throws open the window and the screen, half crawling out into the late night downpour, the cold rain running rivulets down rounded cheekbones and dripping from a ski-slope nose.
“Villain?!”
The stage whisper is ringed with hope and desperation.
“You there?”
“Keep it down, Hero...”
The reply gusts by the Hero’s ear, the warm air raising gooseflesh up both arms.
“No need for you to wake the entire neighborhood.”
“Oh, thank god...”
The Hero slips back inside, the relief palpable in the tone as tense muscles immediately relax.
Heart racing beneath the worn gray sweatshirt, the fabric across the shoulders saturated and dark with rainwater, the Hero runs to the linen closet. Deft, bruised hands grab towels haphazardly, rushing back to the living room. That same heart stutters at the sight of Villain perched in the open window, lounging like some sort of feline—or perhaps a gargoyle. One knee is pulled up towards their chest while the other is bent over the sill and dangling down towards the floor, the toe of their boot flat against the wood floors. They splay just enough to pull their trousers tight across their strong thighs, their spine making an elegant curve for the eye to follow, arched in a manner that is altogether far too seductive. Violet, angular eyes peer out from that sharp face, ash-blonde hair hanging nearly two shades darker and soaked across their forehead. A hand runs through the strands, pushing it back from their face as they keep that smoldering gaze locked on the Hero.
All at once, the Hero forgets how to breathe.
“Are you going to share those towels or are they all for you, darling?” Villain drawls, those shapely lips curling up into a devastating smirk.
Sputtering, face flaming, the Hero unceremoniously thrusts several of the towels at the smirking Villain, immediately retreating. It’s as though the heart beneath these ribs is trying its hardest to break free and fly away. The Hero watches as Villain towels off their soft blonde hair and their warm, brown skin. It’s clear they’re being careful passing over the mottled bruising the Hero is only just now noticing on the exposed areas of their mostly-covered body. Guilt rises hot and seething in a suddenly nauseous gut, and the room immediately feels far too small. Snatching up the cold mug off the coffee table, the Hero skitters into the small kitchen and sets the kettle on to brew more tea for two. 
So focused on the task of preparing a warm beverage for the guest, stewing in guilt and self-hatred, the Hero misses the soft padded footsteps of Villain as they follow into the kitchen.
“You have a lovely home, Hero,” Villain purrs, their rich, full voice rumbling with each spoken word, “although it seems you might need a bit of a hand tidying up. Shall I?”
“No, no–stop, it’s fine, you don’t have to do that!” the Hero sputters, embarrassed by the state of the apartment, the hot flush of blood filling pale cheeks both annoying and inevitable.
Villain always seems to know how to reduce the Hero to a blushing, flustered mess. Something about the way their voice resonates in that broad chest, the richness of their tone just conjures goosebumps and dangerously aroused shivers. They move with purpose, sheer confidence—it’s not quite swagger, but self-assurance. Villain knows themself, isn’t ashamed of who they are and is never going to apologize for being themself. It’s far more attractive than the Hero wants to admit. As embarrassing as it is to admit, just existing in Villain’s presence is quite frankly less of an annoyance and more of a welcome delight with each passing day. The Hero has no idea what that says about what’s happened to the rigid morals that used to exist like a shield.
Villain raises one of those impeccable eyebrows, piercing eyes locking onto the Hero’s face with a laser focus that makes the Hero swallow with nerves. They take a step closer, crowding the Hero against the lower cabinets, the curve of the redhead’s back pressing against the edge of the countertops. The motion exaggerates the arch in the Hero’s spine and causes a rush of breathlessness, long eyelashes fluttering against flushed cheekbones as a soft gasp escapes on an exhalation. Bruised knuckles go white where hands have a death grip on the edge of the counter.
Villain’s face is right against the Hero’s, nearly cheek to cheek—soft lips almost caressing the lobe of the Hero’s ear, words no louder than a whisper as they speak.
“And what if I wanted to help you? What then, my darling Hero? Would you… stop me?”
The whistling of the kettle disguises the whimper that escapes chapped, bitten lips, and the Hero uses it as cover to break out of the gentle pin Villain has. Quivering with unused potential and aching with desire, the Hero pours the hot water over the tea bags and starts the mental timer for a proper steep.
“You truly are a dutiful host, darling.”
Villain’s voice is soft, affectionate—the seductive tone no longer present. The Hero is surprisingly disappointed at the loss, glancing sneakily at the statuesque figure leaning against the counter like a model straight out of a fantasy. Once again, gloved hands drag slowly through damp blonde strands, pushing it back from a bronze forehead, violet eyes shut as an angular jaw tilts upwards with the motion. There’s absolutely zero intentional seduction in the action, but it’s unbearably sexy regardless. All at once, the Hero despises how effortless it all seems for Villain. How easy it is for them to just be so damn attractive, in everything they do, all the time. Biting a lip that still tastes slightly of blood, the Hero watches Villain straighten themself back out, some of their ash-blonde hair slipping back across their forehead, dark violet eyes sliding back in Hero’s direction.
“What tea have you decided on, then?”
“Ah... um, just a simple decaf Lady Grey…”
Villain hums, the sound like a rich, velvet rumbling caress against the Hero’s eardrums. It’s unfair how easily Villain is able to just… to be so damn sexy.
“Another minute of brew time, then. I trust you’ll remove the sachets? Over-steeped tea is an abomination.”
At the Hero’s affirmative nod, Villain hums and pushes off from where they’ve lounged easily against the kitchen counter. As though they've been in the Hero’s home before, they simply start picking up the bits of trash scattered around the apartment like they’re comfortable in the space. The Hero wants to protest—they're a guest!—the tongue behind white teeth feels like it is suddenly far too big, too clumsy and unusable. Watching with wide green eyes, the Hero witnesses the efficiency with which Villain tidies the mess the Hero has made over the past few days, tossing trash into the bin and gathering the collection of water cups from the various places around the apartment to migrate back to the kitchen sink.
“Thank you… you didn’t have to do that, you know.”
Villain smiles, a crooked little thing that makes the traitorous heart living beneath sturdy ribs flutter wildly in reaction. “I am well aware, my dear Hero.”
Flushing, the Hero turns a flustered gaze back to the tea. Removing the tea bags is easy, as is pulling out the box of sugar cubes and the milk from the fridge. Setting both on the counter next to the mugs, the Hero pushes the ceramic cup across the counter towards Villain, still feeling bashful. Quickly dropping in two sugar cubes and a splash of milk into the one held tight within the cage of bandaged fingers, the tea is a welcome distraction. A blush has yet to dissipate.
“Thank you, darling,” Villain says, affection dripping from every word like thick, viscous honey.
The Hero can’t look up from the beverage held in the death grip of battered hands, swallowing another sip of milky, sweet tea. The sounds of a spoon clinking the sides of a mug and the rain against the building are the only sounds in the apartment, Villain and Hero standing less than two feet apart in the small kitchen of the Hero’s apartment.
The Hero swallows, nervous.
“I do hope you don’t consider this an imposition, my dear...”
Villain says quietly, a hesitance to their tone that the Hero isn’t used to hearing from them.
“I am not unfamiliar with mess and the implications that sometimes go along with it. So, forgive me if I am off base, but. Are you… alright?”
The Hero’s head jerks up, green eyes widening to stare in shock. Villain shifts slightly, violet eyes sliding off to the side, unable to maintain eye contact. Their body language is… unsure, those strong shoulders curled inward as though they’re trying to make their already tall, impressive presence smaller somehow. Long, gloved fingers fidget against the rim of their mug and the buckles of the harness spanning their broad chest. They look… they look shy.
“I…” the Hero swallows, taking a steadying breath before continuing, “I didn’t hear from you like I normally do. I was… worried.”
Villain raises their chin, elegant, slanted violet eyes widening in surprise while full lips part in a soft ‘o’ shape. A very subtle flush blooms across the tops of angular, defined cheekbones, making them appear young. When they speak, their voice is wispy, thin and carrying a hopeful tone that is heartbreaking in its implications.
“You were..?”
The Hero frowns, upset by the slowly dawning realization that Villain doesn't seem to realize that the Hero actually cares about them. Auburn brows furrow.
“Of course I was. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Villain looks away, suddenly tense. A muscle in their cheek jumps as they clench their jaw, and the Hero fights the impulse to reach out and soothe it away. This sudden lack of confidence... this insecurity? It doesn't suit them... at all.
“I do try not to delude myself, my dear.”
When they speak, Villain’s tone is resigned and dripping with so much melancholy that the Hero can practically taste it: acrid and miserable where it sits on the tongue.
“As fond as I have become of you, the fact remains that you... you remain firmly on the side of the angels and I…”
A self-depreciating chuckle escapes their chest and they shake their head. Their eyes remain fixed down at the floor as they chew anxiously at their full lower lip for a long moment before taking what appears to be a grounding breath. Slowly, they raise their head and remake eye contact.
“I am very much... not, darling. I wasn’t born to be soft and quiet. I was supposed to... to make the world shake and shatter at my fingertips," they say, an audible, disparaging emphasis on certain words.
"You were born to save it.”
The Hero is offended on Villain’s behalf. “So-fucking-what?”
Villain blinks rapidly, clearly taken aback by the ferociously spat response.
“Who gives a shit about sides or whatever? Side of the angels? What the fuck does that even mean, Villain?” the Hero snaps, slugging down the entire contents of the mug clenched in bandaged hands.
The ceramic gets slammed down unceremoniously onto the counter with enough force that the handle cracks clean off of it, but the Hero hardly notices.
“I may have to fight you because of my job, but you—the you that is separate from the occupation—are my friend, dammit! Of course I’m going to worry about you when I don’t hear from you in over forty eight hours! I beat the ever-loving shit out of you, Villain!! Why did you let me hurt you so badly!?”
The Hero feels the burn of tears in the back of the throat, eyes tight with the effort of holding them back, teeth bared in frustrated agony.
“If you keep being this careless, one of these times you’re not going to be able to walk away at all!”
Villain’s head tilts as they gaze down at the Hero, a warm expression settling over their face, affection plain in their violet eyes. Tension bleeds out of their body all at once and the Hero just feels more frustrated at the reaction. Why don’t they understand? They matter! Why aren’t they taking this seriously?
“Isn’t that the entire point of our relationship, my dear?”
Their voice is barely above a murmur, a gentle smile curving across soft lips.
“You’re supposed to put a permanent stop to my schemes. That is your goal, isn’t it?”
The Hero stops breathing.
“I’ve always known, darling...”
Lines form between elegantly pitched brows, violet eyes hooded and brimming with feeling as Villain gazes down at the Hero, tenderness in every tiny movement. Warmth oozes from their expression, fond in every fathomable way.
“You agreed to our parleys so easily not because you had any real affection for me... but because you hoped I’d... slip up... that I'd reveal something you could use in our battles to your advantage.”
They chuckle again, the sound so sad, so hopeless to the Hero’s ears. Their expression is heartbreaking, so full of genuine affection and resignation—so heavy that it feels like molasses clogging the air, thick and cloying in the throat.
“Well... you got your wish, my dear. The greatest advantage you gained was probably accidental. You made me—the once cold, unfeeling, heartless me—to begin to care... for you.”
Villain takes another step forward, stopping mere inches away from the frozen Hero. A single gloved hand breaches the distance to caress along the curve of a pale jawline with the tenderest of touches. The affection in their eyes makes an already fluttering heart race wildly beneath ivory ribs.
“You will always be the victor between us, my beloved. I’d probably still adore you... even with your hands wrapped around my throat...”
Somehow, unfathomably, they manage to make such an inherently violent statement sound so unbearably romantic that the Hero feels dizzy amidst it all. 
“Someone once said that 'sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,' and while I may not fully agree, sentiment is something I now have in spades... and all of it is for you.”
Their gloved fingers are scalding where they press ever so gently against pale, blushing flesh. The Hero’s heartbeat may never recover with how fast and hard it's racing.
“Somewhere along the way, you ruined me without even trying, darling.”
The tragedy of Villain’s words is nearly eclipsed by the sheer romance of them; gentleness and fervor in equal measure stirring up something from deep within the Hero’s soul.
“I never had the chance to be soft...”
VIllain murmurs, so softly it feels like the holiest of confessions in the barest of spaces between them, their face inching closer and closer to the Hero’s. Those gorgeous, deep violet eyes remain half-lidded; their regard heavy with intent and overflowing with far too many emotions to name.
“I am made up of splintered bones and shards of glass... wounds from a world that would see me shattered. I bury myself in science and technology... and don them like armor.”
Their breath smells like the citrusy black tea they've been drinking, and the Hero can’t help but want to taste it from their mouth; to lick the remnants hidden between their teeth and suck the lingering droplets from their tongue. Villain grows even closer and the Hero’s eyelashes flutter at their proximity, breath shallow and shaky with mounting desire.
“I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me...”
Their lips ghost against the Hero’s with each murmured word and with each whispered brush, the Hero can almost taste the salt lingering on that temptingly soft, plush surface.
“... and it worked. Instead of being afraid, I became something to fear.”
“I…”
the Hero whispers, breathless,
“... I’m not afraid.”
“You should be, darling...”
Villain purrs, lips blatantly dancing against the Hero’s in what can only be called a pseudo-kiss.
“I’m not the good guy... remember?”
They back away, violet eyes dark with emotion and—oh shit—desire.
They lick their lips, crowding the Hero further against the countertops, trailing their mouth—hot and wet—up the column of the Hero’s throat to pause at the shell of the Hero’s ear, whispering,
“I’m the selfish one. I take what I want... I do what I want...”
The Hero shudders as Villain's teeth sink into the tendon offered by a subtle head tilt, barely choking back the startled moan that the sensations inspire. The Hero can feel the dark, seductive purr that rumbles from Villain's chest and throat, shivering with desire at their words.
“... and I don’t do the right thing.”
Through the haze of lust fogging logical thought, the Hero valiantly finds words.
“You’re important to me, you piece of shit,” the Hero raggedly breathes out, aiming for a casual, teasing tone and missing by miles. All-but-shaking with held-back desire, held back feelings all come spilling out like water behind a broken dam.
“You constantly don’t do the right thing, Villain, and yet I… I trust you... completely.”
A sharp inhalation.
Then, whispered...
“... you do realize that this is going to end very, very badly..?”
“Shut. Up.” The Hero hisses. Battered hands snap out and bandaged fingers fist into ash-blonde hair, pulling a breathless gasp from the Villain with the action.
Gloved fingers clutch tight to the Hero’s hips—tight enough that the Hero knows there will be bruises in the shape of Villain's hands, especially where their robotic right one clenches on the left hip.
“I want you to confess to me every terrible thing you’ve done and then let me adore you anyway,” the Hero snarls, yanking Villain flush against the quivering, desirous, traitorous smaller sweatshirt-and-jogger-clad body.
“... and maybe, just maybe... this won’t end badly, and go horribly right instead.”
Two very different faces remain millimeters away from one another, these two people just breathing each other's air in an unbearably intimate, charged moment.
The kiss is sudden, sharp, and ferocious; demanding in its intensity. No longer a Hero and a Villain, the two clutch desperately at each other in the tiny apartment kitchen—finally, blessedly, allowed to take.
It’s perfect.
And it’s everything.
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edited 02/12/24
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Adagio
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Platonic Malleus x GN pianist!Reader
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Reader finds a forgotten piano hidden away in the depths of NRC.  Soothing their loneliness via music, they soon gather a lone audience member who silently enjoys their playing from the shadows.
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CW: none
Word count: 1165
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This wasn’t the first time that the mysterious, dark haired student had come to listen to you play.  You’d noticed him quite a few times over the past few weeks, actually, lingering just outside the partially opened classroom door, hiding off to the side in the shadows of the corridor as your fingers danced along the piano’s keys.  He was so silent most of the time that you might not have noticed him at all, had it not been for the soft, almost imperceptible humming that you had picked up on one day, following along with your fingers upon the black and white keys as you circled around to the beginning of one particular song for the third or fourth (maybe even the fifth) time that evening.
While the memories of your home world were blurry, like the indistinct photograph of an object slipping by as your finger frantically struck the shutter button in a futile attempt to capture the present moment, your fingers seemed to have a memory all their own, one that the transfer between worlds hadn’t had the thought to snatch away.  And so, the dusty piano, only slightly out of tune and tucked away in an abandoned classroom down one of Night Raven College’s unlit stone-walled hallways had become somewhat of a safe-haven for you.  An overlooked instrument, for an overlooked, unmagical student.  The two of you left behind together to waltz to the tune of fragmented classical music from another world.
Usually students didn’t venture this far into the castle, especially not this late in the evening.  Most were preparing to head back to the dorms from club activities and other after-school engagements.  However, the person quietly lingering outside the classroom door wasn’t the average student, you’d come to notice.  You had seen him in the halls quite a few times, followed closely by two tall young men, one incredibly loud, with sharp eyes and green hair, the other one quiet, with a softer expression and light silver locks that almost fell into his eyes, the three always given a wide berth by those passing through the halls.  Though you suspect that this had less to do with Sebek and Silver, upperclassmen whose names you had come to learn in passing, and more to do with the young lord for whom they acted as bodyguards.
Malleus Draconia.  Dragon fae.  Heir apparent to Briar Valley.  The name didn’t mean much to you, not being of this world.  However, it seemed to instill a stark sense of fear and unease into each and every one of your classmates.
You had accidentally caught his gaze once, passing through the stone-walled hallways on your way to Professor Trein’s history class early one morning.  Running late, the halls had been vacant, except for you and one other student.  Out of breath from the near-running pace that you had kept throughout the halls, praying that you could slip into class just before the bell rang, you had turned a corner and looked up just in time to meet the chartreuse eyes of a much taller student, his curling black horns adding significant height to his already tall frame.  He wore the standard black NRC blazer over the bright green Diasomnia vest, a matching dorm armband encircling his upper left arm.  It was rare to see him without his bodyguards, or his vice housewarden, Lilia Vanrouge.  Yet here he was, alone, and running late to class, just as you were, though much unlike you he displayed no outward urgency in ensuring that he arrived on time.   The two of you held eye contact for but a brief moment as you rushed past him, but it was long enough for you to glimpse a very recognizable emotion in his gaze.
Loneliness.  An emotion that you had become almost intimately familiar with since arriving in Twisted Wonderland.
It wasn’t as if you weren’t close to anyone here.  You had made friends, and had at least a handful of people here who you cared about and who cared about you in return.  And yet, sometimes late at night, or during certain holidays or other special celebrations that were foreign to you, classmates and friends sharing that excitement with family and people they had known for years, you could feel that quiet ache slip into your being.  It was during those times especially that the familiar music coming from your fingertips had become a necessary comfort.
Today, strangely, you noticed that your piano was no longer out of tune.  Each key resonated at its intended pitch as you stretched your fingers, warming up each digit with a few sets of scales.  As you eased your way through your warm-up routine and into the repetitive loop of your favorite instrumental pieces, the fading daylight swept by as quickly as it usually did.  As the creeping darkness outside overcame the remaining sunlight you found yourself reaching for a small matchbook and the tarnished silver candle holder that sat atop the piano.  You paused, curiously, as your fingers brushed against the cool metal handle of the candle holder, surprised to see that the melted down stub of wax that had served to light your evenings in this dusty classroom had been replaced with a taller, fresh candle, the wick yet unblemished by soot.
You had just opened the matchbook, fingers searching for a single match within, when out of nowhere the candle suddenly came alight with a sickly green, flickering flame.  Straightening, and turning towards the doorway, you saw that your lone hallway audience member had actually stepped through the door today, and stood only a short distance from you.  His eyes reflected the firelight of the lone candle, almost glowing green in the faint lighting as he towered over you, his horns spiraling away into the shadows.
You noticed that he held an instrument case in his hands.
“You play exceptionally well, Child of Man,” the strange fae remarked.  “Might I accompany you this evening?” He inquired, unlatching the instrument case and pulling out his violin.
“I’m not sure I know anything you’d be familiar with…” You admitted to him, yet unsure whether to be flattered or intimidated by the attention of Briar Valley’s dark prince.  You hadn’t really bothered to learn many songs from this world, instead opting to play what you had memorized from home, over, and over, and over again.  A slight smile graced the dragon fae’s lips at your words.
“I believe that I have become familiar enough with what you already know, Child of Man.”  
Hesitating for just one moment more, you gave him a slight nod in acquiescence, before turning back to the black and white keys in front of you.  Your fingers swept lightly over the keys, an airy, delicate tune soothing the air and growing in intensity with the addition of a tender violin chorus intertwining itself within your melody. 
Perhaps it would be alright to share your loneliness with another person, just this once.
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Thanks for reading!!
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kindlingkeen · 21 days
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Loyalty
A deleted scene from The People We Choose, part 1 my Choices ‘verse, a Jason-centric Lost Days AU. Warnings for references to temporary character death and canon typical violence.
Takes place circa chapter 1. I took this scene out fairly early on while drafting, so the characterization and continuity are a bit off. In other words, don’t take it as canon for TPWC. I may clean it up at some point and post it on ao3, but for now it’s going to live here.
“You’re just a pathetic gutter rat. Loyal to nothing and no one.”
One of the League’s pet assassins spits the words in Jason’s face, and they manage to hit with more than just saliva. Jason is holding the woman at knifepoint, so clearly the assassin is a biased source. But, still. 
Loyal to nothing and no one.
Is he? Is there no one he’s loyal to, nothing he believes in, Jason wonders. But, really, why should he be loyal to anyone in the first place when no one has ever been loyal to him.
It was the story of Jason’s miserable life (ugh, lives) - he’s never mattered enough. Not when it counted, not when it meant something. Willis chose an easy life of crime. Catherine chose the oblivion of drugs. Sheila chose her greed. 
And Bruce, Bruce chose the fucking mission. And he would keep choosing it.
And then there was Alfred. Jason had mattered to Alfred. Jason was sure of it. Alfred had loved him independently of the suit he wore, the criminals he did or did not hit, the person he was or the person he was trying to be.
For that, Jason thinks that he will probably always love Alfred. 
But, for Alfred, Bruce always came first.
Bruce chose to take Robin away. Bruce chose not to avenge Jason. Bruce chose to keep putting kids in the suit that Jason died in. 
And Alfred chose to stand by Bruce and allow it.
So, Jason thinks that he will probably always love Alfred. In a way. But it’s not enough.
Loyal to nothing and no one.
Jason remembers suddenly, something Talia said to him early on in his training at Tadrib Almawt as he lay nearly unconscious, bleeding heavily from a poisoned knife wound.
You made your own magic, Jason.
Jason used to think that being Robin gave him magic. What he could never really put a voice to, could barely admit to himself, was that it was that Bruce wanted him, that he thought Jason was special—that was where the magic came from.
When Robin was beaten and broken in a warehouse and Jason lay alone watching a timer count its way down to zero - he knew, he knew Bruce was coming. He wrapped that knowledge around himself like a fire blanket for his soul and held onto it with all his heart when the moment came - when he knew that no one was going to make it in time.
When Jason woke up in his coffin, he woke up crying out for Batman. When he dug his way out of his grave, he crawled out screaming for Bruce. Alone in a hospital, lost and confused, as his mind splintered apart, he pleaded for his dad. 
But when Jason woke up again, this time for good, drowning in green and pain and rage, he found himself in a world where his murderer was still bathing the city he called home with blood, while a black-haired, blue-eyed boy in Jason’s colors chased after him, a dark shadow following close behind. 
After that, when Jason woke up screaming from nightmares of dying, of choking to death as the world burned around him, he woke up with wordless shouts caught in his throat and cold, hard truth beating in his ears.
He never really had magic at all.
Delirious from blood loss and rambling with fever dreams, he’d blurted out the whole pathetic mess to Talia. He remembers with perfect clarity how she stood silently near the head of his cot watching one of Tadrib Almawt’s medics stitch him up, her face as hard as granite.
At first she’d said nothing at all, lips tight and grim, until the medic finished the bandages and bustled out of the room.
Then she sat abruptly on the side of his cot and looked him in the eye, her firm hand on his chin anchoring his head in place. 
“Jason, it’s unclear to me how exactly this could have escaped your notice,” she said, her tone drier than the desert around them, “but you were dead, and now you are not. You are magic.” 
Her hand reached down and wrapped briefly around his. When she spoke again, the Arabic words came out soft and liquid, like a dream. 
"لقد صنعت سحرك الخاص يا جيسون."
Talia was out the door and gone before he’d even realized she’d moved. Her words echoed around Jason as he shifted restlessly, trying to find sleep. 
You made your own magic, Jason.
Jason focuses again on the assassin dangling limply in his grip, the memory fading away.
I’m loyal to what matters, Jason thinks, his hand reaching out to wrap around the assassin’s sword. 
“I’m loyal to myself,” Jason whispers in the assassin’s ear, as he runs the sword through their gut.
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argyleheir · 23 days
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Drabble - Dearie
For the "sorry dearie" drabble fest. Last one, I promise <3
[Fandom: The Charioteer | Pairing: Ralph/Laurie]
Laurie – one Corporal Laurence Patrick Odell, twenty-three, lately of Oxford, later of a beach in France but by now laid out on the deck of a ship, mid-trip – is dying. This sunshine will be the last to reach him. These sounds the final ones he hears: guns and explosions and screams, more orders shouted than can be followed, Reg Barker moaning low nearby—and Laurie's voice too.
He's dying, and the angel come to claim him looks an awful lot like the man of his dreams.
"Sorry dearie," he says, rather enjoying just one act of defiance, "some other time."
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beyond-the-kitchen · 4 months
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Lyrics flow from miles’ fingers like they always do. Hes never had a problem with writing, words come easy, muisc even easier. He is an emotional person and his outlet just so happens to be something that helps pay the bills, quite well if he does say so himself.
There is a downside to this emotional truthfullness, a side that makes the writing painful. Sometimes he thinks hes too poignant for his own good. The lyrics are sometimes not thinly veiled metaphors, hints at half-truths, somtimes they are a genuine retelling of his life. places and people, the memories and perceptions that certain events and periods hold. He himself is a holder, every person he has met he cradles close to his heart, those he goes on to befriend, or on the rare chance romance, he locks inside and keeps warm. Helps them weather every storm they encounter, every curveball or extreme high he helps them manage. He has his favourites of course, everyone does - his mum, his friends from home, Alex.
Alex is of course the crux of his current emotional turmoil. As he so often is, Miles is not oblivious, not blindsided by his affection for the man. He knows Alex is difficult to pin down, hard to get a read on and often wears a different face every day of the week to protect himself from his harsh realities. Miles is accutely aware of all these qualities, and yet Alex is still the sweetest man he knows, still the most endearing. The source of his current heartbreak, yes, but undoubtedly the love of his life. And so the lyrics flow, freely and entirely heartfelt. 100% how Miles feels about Alex and his recent absence.
You're walking around, your head in the clouds You're acting as if you're Mr. Johnny know-it-all Mister come and watch me fall
You're feeling alive, a Jekyll and Hyde You're riding the tides and everybody's just doing fine Leading that double life
I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya
I hope to see you soon I hope to see you soon Ah, come on
You're dancing with death in a bulletproof vest There's no other way to say it, brother Better watch your step Before all goes west
The king and the queen, the milk in your tea The partner in crime you only ever found once in life Don't let it pass you by
I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll see ya when I see ya
I put myself on mute before I spill the beans Oh, not again 'Cause when you're dancing to your own beat You can be anything that you want Yes, I'm an executive that you can trust
I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya
I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll see ya when I see ya
I wouldn't wanna be ya I'll see ya when I see ya
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waterlilyrose · 1 year
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missing anthony’s white pants hours
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Oh I miss those trousers.
Can you imagine Kate going through their wardrobe and finding them?
Kate: "What are these?" *Holds them up for Anthony to see*
Anthony: "Oh those. They were all the rage last season."
Kate: "Oh? These and your old sideburns?" *Chuckles at Anthony's 'let's not' look* "well come on then - put them on."
Anthony: "What?"
Kate: "Put them on. Let's see the fashion I missed."
Anthony: "Kate-"
Kate: "Didn't you say you would do anything for me?" *Holds out the trousers in a clear 'I'm holding you to that' way.
Anthony takes them with a sigh and disappears behind the changing screen. Kate continues to chuckle until he comes out to show her. And abruptly stops.
Anthony: *taking her silence for horror* "Look I don't wear them anymore so you don't have to worry-"
Kate: "Take them off."
Anthony: "...I know they aren't in season but-"
Kate: "Take them off. Or roll them down. But do it while you lie on the bed. Please!"
Anthony may be a bit of an idiot but he's not completely stupid.
He never wears the trousers in society again. Kate wants that treat all to herself.
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maisonbelligavi · 8 days
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Them being domestic and cute
Okay, how about them taking a hot bath together? It feels nice and relaxing after their respective grueling schedules. Gavi is leaning back against Jude's chest as the older boy occasionally kisses his neck, his ear, and one side of his face.
There's nowhere else Gavi would rather be than in the arms that were holding him so close. There's a feeling of safety and comfort and it's completely new. Gavi welcomes it all the same.
After their bath, Jude rummages in his closet, looking for clothes that Gavi could wear.
"You know, I brought my own clothes right?" Gavi says this with a smile, backing Jude up against the open closet and wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's waist.
"You always look better in mine," Jude says, kissing the tip of his nose, "don't bother trying to deny it."
"Just give me a hoodie already." Gavi rolls his eyes, brat that he is.
Once Gavi has put on the hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, he clings to Jude as they vacate the bedroom. He continues to be clingy even when they make it to the couch. He throws one leg over Jude's lap and rests his head on the older boy's shoulder.
"You're aware we can't play FIFA with you clinging to me like this?" Jude poses the question, but then he goes ahead and pulls Gavi even closer to his body.
Something sweet unfolds within Gavi and he doesn't bother with a verbal response. He simply climbs into Jude's lap and starts kissing him. For several minutes, they trade lazy kisses just like that, an unhurried make-out session that isn't a prelude to anything else.
Gavi pulls back after a while, grinning at him. "Isn't this better than FIFI, hmm?"
"Hundred percent, yes, I'd have to agree," Jude replies, nodding, a beautiful smile adorning his face.
When their take-out arrives, Gavi is forced to get off Jude's lap. He isn't particularly happy about it. But Jude makes sure he doesn't sulk too much by keeping him close to his body.
There's a movie playing on Netflix but they barely pay the TV any mind. They dig into their food, groaning at how delicious it is, and occasionally feeding each other.
Once they are done eating, they settle back on the couch, this time with Jude's head resting on Gavi's lap. Gavi's fingers kept running through the short hair, scratching at his scalp; his actions elicited these soft sighs from Jude.
"So no FIFI then, I take it?" Gavi prods, tone teasing, knowing his boyfriend would be hard-pressed to move from his current position.
"Let's just watch the bloody rom-com, Gavira," Jude said.
"Deal," Gavi says with an airy laugh, right before he drops a kiss on Jude's forehead.
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newbieineverything · 9 months
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Platonic Soulmates AU
Next
Ace's eighteenth birthday was his only birthday that he looked forward to.
The day when your soulmates mark appear on your body. Proof of their love and the life long connection between you.
The day when the proof of his bond with his brothers will forever adorn him.
Before Ace left Dawn island, He & Luffy decided that they wanted the symbol that Sabo chose to mark his freedom to be his mark for them, to have the freedom they treasured that was stolen from their brother be his symbol was the least they could do.
And now finally eighteen, Ace will have Luffy's mark on him too.
Would it be an L? His name? His future Jolly Roger?
He doesn't know, but he's sure it'll be something Luffy.
And looking at the mirror, seeing the yellow grinning face under his tattoo, that looks exactly like the faces on his hat Ace smiles because of course the mark choose to be something Luffy chose for him.
Catching sight of Sabo's mark though, wipes the smile from his face.
Because Sabo's mark is blue.
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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year
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Wayne first saw Steve Harrington when he was on a class field trip to the plant. He couldn’t have been older than 9. Eddie hadn’t come to live with him yet.
He only saw him for a minute, but it only took a minute to see that the boy had dark circles under his eyes that rivaled his own.
It took him a while to forget about the exhausted child in front of him and how much he reminded him of his nephew.
*****
He attended one of the Hawkins High basketball games during Eddie’s first senior year, took the night off for it, even. Eddie was never one for sports, so the fact he agreed to play with his band during their halftime was something Wayne couldn’t pass up watching. It had to have meant something to his boy for him to even mention it, so he played the part of proud parent and sat through the first half of the game.
But when he saw Steve Harrington out there, he couldn’t help but check for those dark circles or the same exhausted slump he saw in a child much too young to show physical signs of exhaustion.
He appeared to be fine, though Wayne couldn’t help but notice how he kept searching the stands for something or someone during every pause in the game.
Wayne had a gut feeling he knew who he was searching for, and an even stronger one that he wouldn’t find them.
After the game and the show, Wayne helped Eddie pack his guitar and amp into the back of the van.
“Hey, you ever talk to that Harrington boy?”
Eddie’s face was answer enough.
*****
To know Eddie was alive wasn’t enough for Wayne, he needed to watch him breathing, watch his fingers twitch while he slept. He needed to know that Eddie was real, was safe, was right in front of him.
But apparently Steve Harrington needed the same reassurances.
Steve had been by Eddie’s side since they let visitors into the room. As far as Wayne knew, he’d only left once for an hour to visit that Max girl’s room.
He was hesitant to say anything beyond kind greetings and goodbyes when he had to head to work. Steve looked one second away from breaking down.
He held Eddie’s hand like it was a lifeline, and maybe it was for him. Whatever they’d been through was serious, proof of that being the injuries they both were dealing with and the fact that Eddie hadn’t opened his eyes yet.
As much as Wayne wanted explanations, he wanted Steve to find comfort in being with Eddie more.
The dark circles under his eyes remained.
Wayne watched the way Steve would stare at Eddie, wordlessly begging him to open his eyes, and wondered what had changed between them. Was it just the trauma of the situation or something else?
He’d known Eddie liked boys for years; hard to hide when you get caught sneaking out of the house to go to a “special” bar in Indianapolis on a school night. He hugged him, told him he loved him no matter what, and offered to drive him out there himself the next weekend he had off if he promised to not go alone on a school night.
But Steve didn’t seem the type. Wayne had learned how to spot them, mostly so he could protect Eddie, and Steve had never seemed like he’d strayed or even thought about straying from girls.
He shouldn’t assume, though.
He knew how Richard Harrington was.
So he sat silently, guarding the two boys who needed it most.
On the sixth day, Wayne asked a nurse if Steve had left the hospital at all.
“No. Poor boy’s been glued to his side. The doctor had to stitch him up in the room because he wouldn’t leave.”
“Stitch him up?”
“Oh, yes! He had a large wound on his side and his chest had a few areas that needed stitches. He wouldn’t let anyone bandage his neck, but they prescribed him penicillin to try to prevent infection.”
Wayne shook his head. So Steve was a self-sacrificing idiot. Time to address that.
“Thanks, Janet. I owe ya a coffee for takin’ such good care of Eddie.”
Janet blushed. “Stop it! I’m just doing my job.”
Wayne smiled at her before making his way into Eddie’s room.
As usual, Steve was in a chair by his bed, hand in hand with Eddie.
The unusual part was that Steve was fast asleep, head nestled against Eddie’s leg.
It couldn’t be comfortable, but going off of how Steve had looked the day before, he was probably too tired to care about comfort.
Wayne looked at the scene in front of him.
Something else was different, too.
Eddie’d moved.
Only someone who’s been in this room for hours on end every day would have noticed it. Eddie’s head was turned towards Steve, and his other hand had found it’s way to Steve’s hair.
Oh.
So it was like that.
Wayne let out a shaky breath, too many emotions trying to escape at once. His boy had woken up, and had found comfort in someone who hadn’t left his side for almost a week. He couldn’t ask for more.
He slowly made his way out of the room, catching Janet just as she was passing to check on another patient.
“Did Eddie wake up?”
Janet’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, Steve hasn’t come to get us. Why? Is everything alright?”
Wayne nodded. “Everything’s fine.”
She smiled at him and continued on her way.
Wayne smiled to himself as he made his way down to the cafeteria to get Steve some food.
It looked like Steve Harrington was finally getting some rest.
Supportive Uncle Wayne Series Part 2
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daedalusdavinci · 30 days
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7 w/ solkat?
7. Unflinchingly settling your head into your lover’s lap while they watch television/are reading a book/doing their favorite hobby. Then asking your lover to explain what’s going on/what they’re doing. i wrote this stream of consciousness and i dont feel like editing it so you get what you get
The nice thing about Karkat is that he's always good for background noise. Whenever you need something else to drown out the voices, he's always there, ranting and raving about some inane bullshit you couldn't care less about, but enjoy hearing regardless. It's an odd day when you can't hear him puttering around the house and mumbling under his breath, cursing out a chair you didn't push in that he tripped over or the food that isn't cooking fast enough. The cat Dave convinced you (convinced Karkat, just by virtue of forcing Karkat to hold it for more than five minutes until all the ice around Karkat's heart melted) to take in is just as loud as he is, and at all hours of the day, you can hear them talking to each other, Karkat's grumble interspersed with the cat's loud meows.
He's quiet today, though. Rose left him with a new book the other day, and apparently today is the day he has the attention span to devour it. You're treated to an uncharacteristic silence as you work, and for a while, it's sort of nice. Until it isn't.
You give up on coding when it feels like there are bugs crawling under your skin, irritation at a boiling point. The code isn't making sense, you can't concentrate, and the screams of the imminently doomed are no longer background, piercing howls destroying any coherent thought you might have left. Your wrists are sore, your neck hurts, your head is throbbing, you're stiff and your eyes are dry and you can't remember the last time you ate. You're done.
Sparks jump from your fingertips as you shove your chair back and ditch your computer. There's a buzzing in your ears that's probably you, but you're too irritable to care as you stalk down the hall to the kitchen. Nothing sounds good, but you know you need to eat if you want to push through this, so you tug open cupboards and force yourself to consider the food anyway.
The cat (Dave wanted to name it Carcinisation; you wanted to name it Hexadecimal. In the end, you compromised on Hexbug, because Karkat said there was no way Dave was naming it after him, Rose liked the nickname Hex, and Dave liked the callback to a human toy you've never heard of) starts meowing at you immediately, trailing a few paces behind you like a starving stray, when you're 100% sure Karkat has been feeding him all his little heart desires. He's as obnoxious and needy as the human who brought him here, and you ignore him, because he's being dramatic and you're so charged up you think you'd shock him if you even tried to pet him. (You do drop him a few treats, because you feel bad.)
In the end, you heat up leftovers. The smell of warm orange chicken makes your stomach perk up a little, and as you eat a few pieces on the way to the couch, you feel a little less like blowing your apartment off the map.
Karkat, predictably, has tucked himself into his favorite corner of the couch with a blanket and the new book. Hex runs past you to jump up on the arm of the couch and complain about your abuse, and without looking up, Karkat lifts a hand to scratch Hex's little, whining head. Because you are the superior lifeform, you flop down on Karkat's other side and bravely resist the urge to complain about Hex framing you.
Karkat looks up for you, though. He blinks the way he does when he's been reading too long, like his eyes are refocusing like a camera lens, and he can't quite see what's in front of him right away. "You look like shit," is the first thing he says.
"Wow, thanks." Despite yourself, you feel your grouchiness crack a little. It probably helps that you're eating now, but there's just something about Karkat, too.
His fingers brush through your hair, like swiping away the static. "You're sparking."
"You don't say."
"Sometimes you don't notice." He's right. He stretches his legs out, unfurling, and his knee pushes into yours. "How's your head?"
"Hurting."
He hums. You don't give him much to work with, and he watches you for a while, thinking. His fingers fiddle absently with the hair at the nape of your neck, arm propped against the back of the couch. His presence makes you feel a little bit more grounded, and so you eat and try to focus on that. Eventually, his eyes drift back to his book.
By the time you finish eating, it stops feeling like enough. You feel less shaky and irritable, but your head is pounding with the force of screams, and you need something else. You push your empty bowl back on the coffee table and twist, dropping sideways across the couch with your head in Karkat's lap. He has to lift his book to accommodate you, but he doesn't protest for a second, seemingly expecting it. His nails drag soothingly along your scalp, and your eyes shut instantly, a wave of relief rolling over you. This is what you needed. Definitely.
Hexbug weaves between you like an asshole, determined to fit himself in the middle of the action. He plops down in the middle of your chest like a big, furry sack of shit, squirming into you to get comfortable until you start petting him. He goes loose instantly, purring quietly at first, and then loudly, the vibration of it rattling your very bones. It feels like it shakes the pain out of you, some inexplicable healing power stored in the rumble of your adorabeast. "He's louder than you," you tell Karkat.
"Tell me something new," Karkat mutters, absentminded.
"What are you reading?"
"Are you asking because you care, or because you want to rag on my taste?"
"Legally, I'm obligated to say the latter, but you know it's both."
Karkat sighs. And then, he talks. And he keeps talking. And the voices fade a little further into the back of your mind, and you relax.
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mollywog · 9 months
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗
Thanks for thinking of me @professionalfangrrl!!!
My Ao3 version is here, but let me plug some Tumblr exclusive snippets…
The Lynx and Superstitious Katniss - I really like these. Some day it will be incorporated into a multi chapter fic…
Finnick and Annie visit D12 post war - Finnick lives and the victors all visit their favorite D12 parolees
War is Canceled AU - Coin and Snow are mysteriously assassinated before anyone is hijacked or tortured - looking for someone to riff with me on this one
THG Modern Jobs - HR rep Johanna does not leave work at work
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hobbyistauthor · 6 months
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Consequences for the Villain's Kindness
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A body flies back, hitting the side of the building with an impact that shakes it to its very foundations. The cloud of dust and debris it kicks up is like a smokescreen, obscuring the victim of such an extreme show of violence. As it slowly clears, a rough silhouette collapses against the building and begins to take shape, revealing itself to be the Villain. To see such an indomitable force rendered down like this is unnatural, the usual stamina and endurance that the Villain is known for missing so profoundly. The obscuring dust eventually clears, revealing the Villain surrounded by a halo of brick and mortar, crumbled and falling like apocalyptic snow around them.
The gas-mask they usually wear during acts of Villainy is shattered and blood-stained black gloves shakily pull the broken remains from their face, letting it drop unceremoniously amongst the rest of the detritus. The Villain coughs, blood overflowing from their mouth to drip down their chin and throat, disappearing into the black high collar of their protective under suit. Their legs shake as they struggle back to standing, dark Kevlar pants ripped and bloodstained. Their prosthetic sparks dangerously from the holes punched into the external plating, spare wires and innermost mechanics spasming and misfiring. 
Their ribs ache, and they’re concerned that the nanobots aren’t going to have enough fuel to pull from to fix the damage this time–there’s just too much, the internal-bleeding not-withstanding. The base of their prosthetic is protesting the damage sustained to the mechanics, connected to their nervous system as it is. It’s agony, but it’s still mostly functional. There’s a non-zero chance that it will fail, but the Villain refuses to succumb to such shitty odds—not now, not when there’s so much on the line.
Never had they thought they’d be in this position, forced into a corner against dubious odds, improbable circumstances. This never should have happened to begin with, and they’re furious it even came to this point. They weren’t even doing anything particularly bad this time, for fucks’ sake, they’d been at the goddamn grocery store when they’d gotten jumped! Gritting their teeth, they fight back the flinch that threatens to overtake them as a particularly sharp shock of pain surges through their nervous system. They flex their right hand, checking the responsiveness and frowning at the jerkiness of the mechanics. Bludgeoning it is, then.
“Villain…”
Their eyes narrow as the sound of footsteps grow louder, adversaries approaching. They can’t run, not with their ankle as fucked as it is and their ribs as jacked as they are–that’s just asking for a lung to get punctured and then it truly would be game over. Steeling their nerves, they straighten their posture as much as they can, immediately starting to come up with contingencies.
“Heroes,” they greet as dryly as possible, “Are you quite finished beating the shit out of me? I find I’m rather tired of your barbaric acts of violence for violence sake.”
The first of the four Heroes that the High Authority Ckuncil has sent after them step out of the shadows around the brick building they stand in front of. He’s tall, built like a brick shithouse, and has hands that look like blunt force weapons. The second slinks out to the far left, long and lean with eyes glowing like toxic waste. He flicks his wrists idly, long stiletto blades flashing between his fingers in a delightful display of sleight of hand. They know these two Heroes, although they were supposed to have retired and gone on to desk work—Alley Cat and the Hound.
“I know there are two more of you, don’t take me for a fool. Show yourselves, lest I assume you cowards,” they sneer, lip pulling back into a bloody snarl.
“You’re a piece of work, Villain,” a very young female voice drawls, a woman–no, a girl–stepping out to the Villain’s right side, casually examining her fingernails. She’s dressed similarly to Their Hero and it makes them seethe.
“I’m certain I could say the same about you,” the Villain replies, “although you look barely old enough to drive so perhaps I ought to simply presume you’re merely a teenager with a chip on her shoulder.”
“Why you–!”
“See, if I wasn’t ordered to take you out, I’d have thought you funny, Villain.”
The Villain turns to face the fourth hero, a young man built strong, but not like the Hound, also dressed in a fashion similar to Their Hero. He’s perhaps what one would call “dashingly handsome” but the Villain just wants to spit at the ground by his feet. He’s the one who beat them so badly… they’re not going to forget such a punchable face any time soon—they will hold a grudge until they consider payback served.
“Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
He smirks at them, probably used to getting some sort of reaction, but the Villain just stares back.
“Villain, the Authorities know you’ve been snooping around in our databases,” Alley Cat says, his voice smooth and deep, coming to stand beside the Hound, “we’ve been authorized to clarify what information you stole by whatever means necessary, as well as to determine what you’ve done to another of the Authorities' Heroes.”
Arching a brow, the Villain remains still although their heart begins to race. They’d known this day would come, but they hadn’t known it would be like this. Perhaps one new Hero would come after them, not four! Wasn’t this overkill? They aren’t even a Supervillain, just a Villain, what about them warrants four Heroes coming after them with an “any means necessary” order? 
Panic begins to rise.
“Curious, I don’t recall ever admitting to such a thing. What makes you so certain it was me snooping around, as you claim?”
“Because you did something to Zeta!! And I won’t stand for it!!” the girl-child Hero stomps her foot, pointing angrily at the Villain.
“Chi, stop it,” the annoyingly handsome Hero chides his comrade, “Zeta was one of the first generation of Heroes to come out of the new Program,” he turns back to the Villain, “and you did something that made doubt enter the equation where it never had before. Zeta never questioned anything before.”
Privately, the Villain feels a surge of pride in their Hero, having learned that their Hero has begun to think independently, away from the brainwashing claws of the Authorities. Outwardly, they remain impassive.
“Zeta is my senior,” he continues, “and I refuse to allow your toxic influence to continue to poison the good the Authorities and Zeta can do together!”
“Yeah! What Iota said!”
The Villain sighs, closing their eyes and pinching the bridge of their nose, “I cannot claim to have such influence over this Zeta you speak of, nor can I claim to have been snooping–as you say–in your database to steal information. I am afraid your intel is false and this entire endeavor has been in vain.”
“I don’t believe you!” the little girl hero shouts.
Tossing their hands in the air, an action that fucking hurts, the Villain scoffs, “Believe what you will, child, but I am not lying!” 
In their periphery, they can see the Hound and the Alley Cat look at one another and exchange a look, nodding as though coming to some sort of conclusion. The Villain feels like they’re dancing on the head of a pin; on the precipice of danger. This encounter can end one of two ways: relatively peacefully, or with more gratuitous violence. They’ve given up the information the Heroes want—granted it’s not completely factual, but there’s enough truth there that it stands on its own—and quite frankly they’d never learned their Hero’s actual hero name, so this whole Zeta this, Zeta that nonsense means jack shit to them. Their Hero is Their Hero, plain and simple. Whatever name the shitty, fucked up Authorities assigned is nothing in comparison to what Their Hero means to them.
“Chi, Iota—we’re done here. The Villain has given us the requested information, and it seems that our intel was wrong. They have no reason to lie, considering they’re hiding how seriously their injuries are,” Alley Cat orders. It’s almost comical how quickly the two younger heroes snap to attention, but the relief the Villain feels at the announcement at the Hero’s imminent retreat overwhelms everything else.
“Yessir!” the younger female hero–Chi, was it?–chirps, saluting and skipping over to the two veteran heroes, looking up at them like a dog asking for praise. The Villain barely suppresses their scoff. Seriously, the Authorities really are shameless, creating child soldiers, of all things. Disgusting.
“But, sirs–!”
“Iota, that was an order.”
“I understand that, sirs,” Iota replies, insubordinate. The Villain arches an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smirk. Oho, this kid is hurting for a reprimand, if the way Alley Cat’s expression is twitching is any clue, “but surely we haven’t exhausted all our options here? I’m sure we can get more information out of this Villain if we apply more pressure.”
“Iota.”
The younger male hero straightens immediately at the deep reprimand from the Hound. When the man speaks up, you listen. He’s a veteran, a soldier. The Villain’s heard the stories; the guy was active when Mother and Father were on the scene and he’d thwarted their plans more than once with Alley Cat at his side. The man is smarter than he looks, after all.
“We’re Heroes. We do not torture. We do not maim. We do not kill without good reason.”
Ah, yes. Morals, the silly things that Heroes believe set them so much higher than Villains. The Villain resists the urge to roll their eyes. That wouldn’t be a good idea at this moment.
“If you believe that pursuing our line of inquiry further on an adversary who is one good blow away from worsening their internal bleeding to the point that they very well may die, then perhaps the Authorities made a mistake in allowing you to join their ranks.”
“Sir!”
“So, Iota,” the Hound says, calm as can be, “do you still think there’s validity in pushing the Villain further for more information despite the fact that they’ve already willingly given us what we came for?”
“I for one, would have continued to push me were I in your shoes, Iota,” the Villain can’t help but drawl, a lazy smirk crawling across their lips to reveal bloodstained teeth, “but then again I don’t subscribe to the same morals as your beloved Authorities do, do I?”
“Villain.”
“Ah, apologies, Sir Hound,” they demur, ducking their head to hide their silent laughter.
“Well, Iota?” the Hound asks again. The Villain watches through the fringe of their hair as the burly man crosses those thick arms across his giant chest, making his imposing presence even more intimidating. The younger male hero deflates.
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now, move out.”
The Villain watches them leave, and only once the group of heroes are far enough away do they collapse down to one knee, wheezing in agony as all the adrenaline wears off and the shock sets in. Everything hurts, every breath, every twitch, every hair on their body aches with a ferocity that has them wanting to cry. They haven’t shed tears in years, and quite frankly it feels foolish to do so now even with as much pain as they’re in. Their left hand is clenched into the muscle of their thigh, pressed hard even through the tough, Kevlar-laced material of their pants. They slowly detach each finger one by one, crossing their body to latch onto the anchor point of the prosthetic. Only muscle memory has them detaching the mechanical arm, the broken thing clattering to the pavement beside them, the shredded remnants of their right sleeve ripping further as gravity does its thing.
They don’t know how long they remain there, amidst the detritus and debris from where they’d been flung unceremoniously into the building, dazed and in pain, as they struggle to find the strength to move and call their minions to pick them up so they can get to one of their safe houses. Swallowing, they squeeze their eyes shut, wishing that none of this ever happened. 
Wishing, foolishly, that they’d never thought to try and find out why Their Hero wasn’t able to see their family.
Never wondering why it was so hard for Their Hero to remember the warm embrace of a mom, the blustery laughter of a dad, or the teasing of a sibling. 
Wishing they’d never thought they could do something kind for someone they–
–for someone they love.
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edited 11/6/2023 02/12/24
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Rook Hunt x Male!Reader
A lover of all things beautiful, Rook Hunt wouldn’t dream of shying away from the chance to watch you practice your newest figure-skating routine, sans invite, of course.
CW:  brief mention of past character death 
Word Count: 1171
A/N:  This drabble is brought to you by the yearly reawakening of my Yuri On Ice obsession
(Still patiently waiting for Ice Adolescence cuz I'm delulu)
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The spinning of the empty arena around you halted as your skates made contact with the ice again, gliding forward on its smooth, frozen surface as you prepared yourself for your next jump.  You could clearly see your breath in front of you, panting in the frigid air, as you realized that you were a bit more out of practice than you had previously thought.
An avid figure skater in your old world, though perhaps nothing overly extraordinary, you were no Olympian, it had been several months past your arrival at NRC when you had finally learned that Sage Island had a small ice skating rink of its own.  Skating around one of the school’s frozen ponds with your classmates on a rather nice day set in the deepest part of Winter you had mentioned in passing to the other freshmen that back in your world you had several years of experience on the ice, and had lamented the loss of your ability to continue with your regularly scheduled practice routine.  (Though surely your body was grateful for the temporary hiatus.)  Cue Epel dragging you down to the city center the following day, right up to the doors of the Sage Island Ice Rink.
It didn’t take you very long to become familiar with the owner of the rink, a kindly older woman who had been quite the figure skater herself in her youth, trophies and plaques displayed next to black and white photographs behind the skate rental counter, and who eventually gave you permission to come by the rink after closing whenever your homework load let up enough that you had the spare time to re-immerse yourself in your sport.
And so here you were, just you, the ice, your music playlist, and a lurking Rook Hunt who was not even trying to hide the fact that he was watching you skate.  Drifting backwards past the section where he was seated, a prime spot right in the front, you raised your eyebrows slightly at him in curiosity, receiving his signature cheery smile in return.  Shaking your head teasingly, you turned your attention back to the set you were currently working on.
You had been attempting to choreograph this one back home, to one of your favorite pieces of music, a lively piano and violin piece that you no longer had access to here in a whole different world.  Back then, you had been struggling with just how to fit together the last few pieces of your performance, somehow every time failing to compose it in a way that felt just right.  Yet right here you were twirling through the air and sliding across the ice in a perfectly seamless transition from one step to another, to a whole new musical composition, one you could have never heard until landing yourself in Twisted Wonderland.  As if it were some strange destiny that you bring your artistic vision to fruition only after having woken up in this peculiar, dangerous, beautiful land.  
Ever so graceful off of the ice, the last thing that you could remember before falling out of that magical coffin and into Night Raven College’s first year ceremony was tripping over your own feet in the arena locker room after a competition, the world abruptly going black as your head made harsh contact with the very edge of the changing room bench.  You would never admit this aloud to anyone though.  You knew that Ace would never let you live it down if he got word that you went out in such a way.
As the music slowly came to a finish, you found yourself sliding to a gentle stop at the edge of the arena, your skates stilling right in front of where your upperclassman was perched, no longer in his seat but instead leaning over the wall, chin resting in his hand, his intense emerald gaze fixed upon your figure.
“What a simply marvelous performance, Prince de la Glace.”  Rook exclaimed, as you braced your hands on your knees, letting your upper body droop as you caught your breath after such intense exercise.  “Such passion in your performance!  C’est trop bien!  Your confidence upon the ice has re-emerged like a bright spring flower blossoming through fallen snow.”
Anybody else wouldn’t have been able to tell if you were flushed from embarrassment, or from the stinging chill of the ice rink, but you were certain that Rook knew, with those uncanny green eyes that seemed to stare right past the surface every time the two of you happened to make eye contact.  (Which happened more frequently than you cared to admit.)  You supposed it could be unnerving, everyone else seemed to be in agreement that the Pomefiore vice housewarden was peculiar, to say the least.  Most tried to avoid him.  However, you were doubtful that there was ever a quarry that could elude the evasive hunter.  You must have been a bit odd yourself, not minding that you had caught his attention.
“You only ever visit the rink to watch me skate,” you remarked, standing yourself upright again, and meeting the hunter’s sharp eyes.  “Maybe you’d like to try it out for yourself for once?” 
You gestured to the small expanse of ice behind you.
Fetching a pair of ice skates in Rook's size, the other student allowed you to tie his laces for him before you led him out onto the ice. Skating in a group with friends had always been enjoyable, but this was something quite different. 
There was always something so much more intimate about sharing the ice with just one other person.  There was also the excitement at the thought that you might get to watch the normally graceful hunter fall flat on his ass.  Truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
You tried not to smile at the thought, prepared to aid your classmate should he end up sprawled on the ice.  Yet it turned out that the self-proclaimed Chasseur D’Amour was more sure on his feet than you had previously anticipated, remaining perfectly poised and balanced only a few steps behind you, leaving you to wonder if this was truly his first time on the ice as he had led you to believe.
Instead, it was you, the veteran figure skater, who lost your balance first, a surprised gasp stealing the air from your lungs as your feet slipped out from under you, sending you tumbling backwards.  In that split-second, you had prepared yourself for the jolting pain that usually came with such harsh contact with the frozen surface beneath you, however that moment never came to pass.  Instead of the frozen ice of the rink, you felt a warm pair of well muscled arms wrap around you, your back bumping against Rook’s chest as he caught you.
“Quelle tragédie!”  Rook exclaimed, his arms snug around your waist.  “It would appear that you have fallen for me, my dear Prince de la Glace!”
This time there would be no blaming your reddened cheeks on the ice.
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Thank you for reading! Likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!!
🐇♥️🐇
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